A Thanksgiving Poem

On the origins of the holiday and the turkey that survived.

For a large part, America is traditionless. The idea of ubiquity in culture was thrown out before the Declaration of Independence was written. The country was founded with a double-edged sword of Protestant individualism that was the prerequisite for the swashbuckling, intrepid, stiffnecked people it would create.

The problem with that ethos, however, is that it entrusted the people with their own canon. Similar to how Protestantism gave way to an endless litany of iterations of Christianity separated by (from the outsider’s perspective) infinitesimal disagreements, American culture has been subjected to the same type of narcissism of small differences.

Despite this, Thanksgiving was created by those very protestants, and we’ve managed to stick to some modicum of tradition for over four hundred years. Over the fruits of the fall harvest, it celebrates the overarching ideas of America - communion, abundance, and gratitude.

Thank God for the feast. Thank God for America.

Survivor's Guilt

it wasn't me who asked to be saved
long ago, i had resigned to my fate
beside the yams, the stuffing and the cranberries
it should've been me on your dinner plate
when they took my flock, i didn't try to stop 'em
of being a good bird, i ain't never been accused
i pecked at my siblings, i stole their food
no one's proud it was me that made it
not even my ma would be amused

now i've been on the news and the president knows my name
until today i didn't know i even had one
so i sit with my beak in the air, wishing for hard rain
or rustle in the woods, listening for the sounds of a shotgun
them folks at the white house are pattin' their backs
and the tv stations think i should be thankful for this gift
but what a black friday it is, it's somethin' obscene
cause ain't nothin' worse than being the turkey that lived

a hard rain’s gonna fall