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Past Life Regression

sitting down with a past life regression therapist

i learn that i was once a british orphan, scrubbing floors on my knees

i learn that i was once a chinese soldier, fighting for mao
i learn that i was once a very very very old woman in russia who didn't speak to anyone and survived only on rabbit meat and weak tea

Wolf Raised By People

Making her wear lady's gloves

Upon her wolfy paws

Always quick to mention

Her many wolfy flaws

She isn't good at tea time

She isn't good in school

She just curls up and goes to sleep

Her textbook's full of drool

"Sit straight! Don't slouch!

And comb your fur!

My goodness, how you shed!

And why's it always meat you want?

Not satisfied with bread?

How kind we were to take you in

And look how we're repaid...

You'll eat us out of house and home

Such sacrifice we've made!"

The she-wolf sighs; she tries and tries

It don't do any good

Instead of tea and school, she'd like to

Hunt deer in the wood

In her mind, she hears the phrases

That her benefactors said:

"If it weren't for us, by now

You'd be illiterate or dead!"

So she picks up her embroidery

And she fumbles with the thread

And makes up her mind to try again

To eat less meat, more bread.

Three Poems about the Eclipse

Eclipse, day. Eclipse, night.

Eclipse blurs boundaries between day and night.

Eclipse, hi. Eclipse, why.

I know something about your wily ways.

Eclipse, when. Eclipse, you.

You haven't had enough tomato sauce.

Eclipse, one. Eclipse, disaster.

Where did you put your clean knickers?

Eclipse, friends. Eclipse, not-friends.

The Great Betrayal.

Eclipse has many sides, for example

You could be a scientist and want the eclipse

to be for your experiments or

You could be a poet and want the eclipse

to give you a glimpse of cosmic beauty or

You could be a child with parents who neglect to buy you a pair of glasses and you burn holes through your retinas--yow!

When I went out to see the eclipse, it was cloudy and I saw only clouds

Other people: 'wow!' 'amazing!' 'totally worth it!' plus Instagram posts of them in their eclipse-glasses

pangs of wishing this cosmic line-up would align my mind with purpose--if only I had been there! but of course, if I had been there, it would have been a different me, there would have been a glitch in the web of all time, a pig staring at the web would have noticed the glitch and whined, all animals would suffer from an instant-knowing-they-were-about-to-be-killed-right-as-they-were-about-to-be-killed but wait, do they have that anyway?

The Crickets' Companion

When I saw all the dark angels gathering, their wings spread over the sky like black umbrellas, I put my pen down and chewed on the skin of my thumb.

When I saw them descend, voices booming, damning the sinners for their sins, I regretted that I had not lately called my mother.

When I saw the earth open up into a pit of hell, and the sinners slide down squealing like pigs to slaughter, I felt warm droplets of sweat form on my cheeks.

When the Great One appeared in blazing yellow glory, and called the saints to live in High Paradise by his side, I ran out to join the ascent.

The masses rose up above me, all those tall short old young fat thin rich poor who had done good in their lives, who had lived according to the Spirit, all of them rose above me so that I could see the bottoms of their shoes, millions of shoes, and, to my shame, I could see up the skirts of those who were wearing dresses…

And when all had been vacuumed up to High Paradise, I stood alone in an empty world, waving my arms and crying to the Great One that I had been forgotten.

When my arms got tired from waving, I lowered them, and heard the crickets chirp.

What am I now? I thought. I am no one’s employee, no one’s friend. I am no one’s son, no one’s lover.

There was no one to serve me ice cream. There was no one to check out my library books. There were no traffic sounds; no need to look both ways before crossing. I wondered if this was purgatory, or if I had simply been forgotten.

Forgotten.

I sat on a park bench and waited for the Great One to remember that I was meant to be vacuumed up as well.

But the stars came out, the shadows grew, and I was still just the person the Great One forgot. 

I ran around smashing some windows, whacking some fire hydrants with crowbars, just to watch them spew.

Was it because I had looked up the saints’ dresses as they ascended that I had been consigned to this leftover earth? Was that my final, subtle test of sainthood--had I failed?

I was doomed to chastity now, I realized. Unless I developed a liking for donkeys. Or sheep.

The crickets’ chirp grew louder, and I felt bad for smashing things, even though I hadn’t really hurt anyone. It wasn’t as if there were shop owners anymore.
I realized I didn’t have to go back to my apartment to sleep. I could sleep in the most luxurious penthouse in the city. I could sleep in the mayor’s mansion! But I went back to my own apartment anyway. I wanted to smell the smell of my sheets, and make sure my goldfish was still there.

Mrs. Mop

Mrs. Mop couldn't stop mopping--just couldn't!

She mopped the floors, then mopped again

Although she knew she shouldn't

She mopped the toilet, mopped the walls, and even mopped the ceiling

There was something about mopping

She found utterly appealing

"The soapy water, oh!" she sighed

"The mop head's soggy strings!

And dancing with the handle!

What merriment it brings!"

The floors were always wet, and so

They quickly started molding

Her children cried: "Stop mopping!"

And they gave their mom a scolding

"I only tried to clean," she said

"That's why I did the mopping."

"The problem is," her children said

"Your mopping is nonstopping!"

"I guess if all you kids agreed

To keep things clean and neat

I wouldn't need the mop

And you could put it on the street."

"Done!" her children answered

And they cleaned the house themselves

The mop was given up

Or maybe hidden in the shelves

And that's how clever Mrs. Mop

Who'd faked the whole obsession

Never had to clean again

And taught her kids a lesson.

My Uncle's Motorquacklers

In the motorcycle sidecar

Of my uncle's Yamaha

Are a pair of baby ducklings

That we nicknamed Zim and Za

My uncle didn't realize

That a duck had laid her brood

In a rusty motorcycle

That he'd hardly ever used

When we took them from the sidecar

They went 'QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK'

And kept up the commotion

Until we put them back

My uncle fixed the bike up

And took them for a spin

I made them little helmets

Out of rubber bands and tin

The children jump and giggle

As Zim and Za cruise past

My uncle honks his horn--beep beep!

And then speeds off real fast

My uncle is a fellow

Who enjoys a good duck roast

But now Zim and Za are famous

And my uncle likes to boast:

"It's the only Motorquackle

In a hundred thousand miles!

And everywhere I take it

All the folks erupt in smiles!"

The ducks who don't choose sidecars

As alternatives to nests

Might end up on a dinner plate

Divided, legs and breasts

But Zim and Za are special

They're as lucky as it gets

As official Motorquacklers

They're my uncle's favorite pets.