A Mirror-Mind's Lament

It’s becoming ever clearer

That I’m actually a mirror

And when I am introspecting

I am really just reflecting

‘Cause there’s nothing on the outside

That’s not also on the inner

‘Cause both in and out are Empty

And it’s Emptiness for dinner!

But a mirror’s just as Empty

As the Empty space it’s seeing

So it can’t be me that’s Empty

Unless Emptiness is Being

Oh it’s strange to be so empty!

What a state of disaffection!

For a mirror feels so useless

When it’s void of a reflection

It can just reflect the things that are

What else can it expect?

But soon it learns that ‘things’

Are just what human minds project

And when a human mind’s a mirror

(Like mine is, as I have said)

Naught’s projected, naught is seen

And so I might as well be dead!

But is there stuff to see in afterlife?

And is there stuff to do?

Or in afterlife, do mirrors gain projecting powers too?

Oh, I envy all you minds

Who can project a world of forms...

And see the trees and rivers

And the sun and clouds and storms

 ‘Cause when mind is just a mirror

With an empty out and inner

Then it can't have steak or French fries
No, it's Emptiness for dinner

And your steak (though it’s projected)

Is your steak, and never mine

And I cannot even see it

But my god, it smells divine.

Flannery O'Connor: An Semi-Accurate, Non-Erotic Biography

Flannery O’Connor, Flannery O’Connor
In 1951, the doctors said she was a goner
They said: “Lupus, lupus, lupus!”
And she said: “Holy cow!
I guess I’ll live with mom and raise some peacocks now!”
She raised a hundred peacocks
She wrote a hundred books
At night she went out dancin’ with the gypsies and the crooks.
Her work was Southern Gothic
It wasn’t Kafkaesque
The critics said: “Yo, Flannery, your writing is grotesque!”
She said: “Ooga-booga-booga!
I’m a Catholic wiccan!
When I was just a kid, I had a famous pet chicken!
I liked to eat shrimp, and I liked to eat pie
In 1954 I got a kiss from a guy
He said my lips were limp
And my teeth were hard as stones
He felt like he was makin’ out with skeleton bones.
I wasn’t dead yet, but I was in ‘64
The lupus ate me up and spit me out upon the floor.
And I said Ooga-booga-booga!
Time to meet God! You shall know the truth
And the truth will make you odd.”

Grandma Tap Dance

Grandma Tap Dance—watch her go
Across the stage she shuffles
She’s wearing ancient tap shoes
And a faded dress with ruffles.


She’s shuffling but she doesn't hear
The music's steady beat.
She only knows the music means
She’s s’posed to tap her feet.


She goes in circles aimlessly
And claps her castanets.
She sometimes knows that she’s on stage
But sometimes she forgets.


And when she’s done, the host says
“Ninety-one! Still dancing! Gee!
I think that’s great!
Put money in the hat if you agree.”


Clink, clink—here come the pity coins
“She’s ancient, after all.”
“She didn’t really dance, but hey
At least she didn’t fall.”


And Grandma Tap Dance, now offstage
Is in a chair, asleep
Her body sags, she looks like
Skin and ruffles in a heap.


Her daughter takes the coin hat
And she lets her mother snooze
Ten bucks, twelve cents—not terrible.
She leaves to buy some booze.


And Grandma Tap Dance dreams she’s young
She’s barely come of age
She’s dancing oh-so-beautifully
Across a lighted stage.


She leaps and shimmies, spins and slides
Until the curtain closes
The crowd goes wild; the stage is filled
With heaps and heaps of roses.


While Grandma dreams, the daughter drinks
‘Til drinks have drowned her sorrow
“C’mon, Mom, let’s go home,” she slurs
“You’ll dance again tomorrow.”


But Grandma won’t be woken up
For her, the crowd still cheers
The lights! The stage! The roses!
Oh, how real it all appears!


“Wake up, Mom!”—Grandma blinks her eyes
Where is she? How? And why?
Her daughter takes her home
And lets her have a slice of pie.

Math for Girls: A Cancelled Course

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath

Left her socks on in the bath

Taught her own uterus how to do math

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plud

Dug for worms in dried-up mud

Six times nine and the answer’s blood

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plud

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plo

Tied a kite to a croak-eyed crow

Six times nine is an embry-o

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plo

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plate

Used her thumb as salmon bait

Six times nine is a neonate

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plate

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plume

Pooped in Tutankhamen’s tomb

Six times nine is an empty womb

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plume

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Ploor

Head in the oven, feet on the floor

Six times nine is fifty-four

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Ploor

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia died

Sylvia, Sylvia soo-ih-side

Sylvia’s uterus then applied

To teach Math for Girls (but was denied).

I'm Just A Sweet Old Lunatic

I’m just a sweet old lunatic

Oh won’t you take me in?

I’m a harmless little psycho

With a pimple on my chin.

I’ve got no place to sleep tonight

You’ve got an extra couch

And I can tell you’re friendly

From your squint-eyes and your slouch.

And so I think I’ll follow you

To your apartment door

You haven’t got a couch?

Oh well, I’ll sleep upon the floor

You won’t regret inviting me

I’m gentle as a cat

I don’t need much to eat
Just one small cockroach or a rat.

I’m just a sweet old lunatic

I’ll keep your pests at bay

Oh will you, won’t you, pretty please?

Oh won’t you let me stay?

You won’t? Why not? Don’t tell me:

It’s the pimple on my chin!

You think that it’s the devil’s mark!

A pustule made of sin!

Why, you’re an old religious fool!

Well, if I only knew!

Who needs you, huh? Who brought you here?

You ignoramus you!

And what’s more, you’re….oh wait

I see. You’re just a knobby stick.

I shouldn't trust my eyes

I’m just a sweet old lunatic.

A Fun New Rhyming Medical Pamphlet

What’s in my lovely birthday box
All wrapped in pink and yellow?
Is it a brand-new radio?
A copy of Othello?
No! It’s cancer!

What’s in my porcelain sipping-mug
That looks so steamy-hot?
Could it be coffee, tea or
Warm milk chocolate that I’ve got?
No! It’s cancer!

What’s in the snout of Rudolph
That shines so bright it glows?
Could it be Santa’s magic
That illuminates his nose?
No! It’s cancer!

Why does the Easter Bunny-man
Stuff all his eggs with candy?
Is it the children’s eager eyes
That make him act so dandy?
No! It’s cancer!

What makes the dolphin flip and leap
Above the salty ocean?
Is it a love of splashing
That propels his glorious motion?
No! It’s cancer!

Why does the songbird chirp a tune
While floating on her wings?
Is it because, when given lungs,
The Great Creator sings?
No! It’s cancer!
 

Why did my doctor do those tests

And then give me this poem?

I wish he hadn’t. I’m confused.

I think I’ll just go home.

The Great Green Goo Man Geekled

The great green goo man geekled

“Gizdom fee, fuzz guzzled gum!”

Atop the wikky-wikky tree

Oh wrinkled! Giblet! Fum!

The ticky-tacky tim tum tap

That toed his tizzled tongue

Derived the meat ma-goona

When the winter wonkle dummed.

“BO HO!” cried great green goo man

“Guz you wut, the wim-wam zum?”

But nay, the izlet fizdom

Hooped the winskies

Every one.