Waiting for a Rabbit

This morning
I went on
a rabbit hunt.

It’s not what
you think.
No weapons
were involved.

I had a yen
to find
a Rabbit Hole,
to drop into
Wonderland.

As I waited
for a rabbit
to appear,
I got
curiouser and
curiouser.

The dictionary
insisted that
a rabbit hole
is “strange,
confusing,
illogical,
difficult to
escape from.”

That’s what
you get when
you are trapped
in a dictionary
looking for
definitions,

when you
should just
keep looking
for a rabbit.

Go ask Alice.

(Photo by Victor Larracuente; UnSplash)

 

Central Casting

Walking
The Dog,
having my
usual one-sided
conversation
with whoever
is producing
this piece of
cosmological
theater.

I’m desperate
for notes
from the
Director.

How am I doing?
I feel like
a fraud,
a failure,
like I’ve forgotten
all my lines.

As is often
the case . . .
nothing.

Until later,
when there’s
a whisper
and
a comforting.

“If you’re
looking for
a review,
that will come
when the show
is over.

“For now,
you should
know that
we all
agree:

“For playing
the part
of You,

“You have
been perfectly
cast.”

(Photo from Austrian National Library; UnSplash)

 

Be On the Lookout

There’s something
you do
that’s easy as
eating an
ice cream cone.

Like putting down
one word after
another as they’re
being handed
to you by an
itinerant magician
who just happens
to be in your
neighborhood
bearing words
wrapped in
iridescent
bubbles
waiting to burst
on your page.

Maybe for you
the Muse
arrives with
a scrim
to be strung
across your
imagination
and lit up
with images
projected by
a projectionist
of unknown origin
you don’t remember
summoning.

I’ve been
instructed to
remind you
to be on
the lookout
for your
Imaginary Friend
bearing
ice cream cones.

(Photo by Khashayar Kouchpeydeh; UnSplash)

 

Directions

All your life
you’ve been
oriented.

West
a half-mile to
that school
where you’ll be
taught to
get in line,
boys here,
girls over there.

South
four blocks to
the church
where you’ll
learn to sit
still
and learn that
you’re a sinner
and that leads to
Someone’s
death.

East
to work
for the least
they’ll have to
pay you
to give them
your best
waking hours.

Then North
into the
Old Country,
and by Old
they mean
you’re history.

I have an idea:

Let’s stop
taking directions
and get
disoriented.

(Photo by Jon Tyson; UnSplash)

 

Fish Out of Water

The Mystery
is what you
dip your
pen in,
or your
dancing shoes,
or your
guitar pick.

Or you drink
from it
before getting
on stage or
behind the
microphone.

Or maybe
it’s like
walking into
the ocean.

At first you
just get in
up to your knees,
then your waist,
then you
plunge.

Lately I’m
wondering
if it’s
possible to
grow gills
and fins
and a tail
and
live in it.

(Photo by Pyvovarova Yevheniia; UnSplash)

 

A One-Person Show

Remember
how Jesus
said the thing
to do is
to love
others just
like you love
your Self?

Or, make sure
you remember
to love
your Self
as much
as you love
others?

Here’s an idea:

Imagine you
in a one-person
show.

It’s called
The Prodigal.

In Act One,
you play this
person who has
betrayed
their Father,
or Mother,
for starters,
with a long
list of
failures.

If you’re like
me, that list
goes on for
pages.
I was re-reading
my list
just this morning.

In Act Two,
you play
the Father
or the Mother
who sees
your Self
approaching
from afar.

You run to
embrace
your Self
and laugh
when the
list comes out
in all its gory
detail.

You use it
as a fireworks
starter,
in act Three,
when you
throw your Self
a party
the neighbors
will never
forget.

You’ve come
home.
All is
forgiven.

(Photo by Spenser Sembrat; UnSplash)

 

You’ve Been Warned

I have
a challenge
for you.

Not one of
those TikTok
things
where you dance
till your
clothes
fall off.

This is
much more
demanding.

Find a place
to sit
comfortably.
You may
be here
for awhile.

Start thinking.
Think.
Think.
Think.

If the urge
to do
something
“more productive”
assails you,

swat it away
like a pesky
mosquito.

(If an actual
mosquito
assails you,
no need to
kill it.
Just swat it
away
firmly.
Mosquitos
have souls
too.)

Think.
Think.
Think.

Perhaps
for hours.
Keep swatting.

Warning:

The Mystery
likes to
shoot bolts
of electric
inspiration
to do wild
artful things.

You are a
sitting target.

Don’t say
I didn’t
warn you.

(Photo by Bruce Mars; UnSplash)

 

Cardiology

I need a
consult
with my
cardiologist.

I’m thinking
we should
do a CT Scan
of my brain,
then an
echocardiogram
of my heart.

I’d ask him
to look for
whatever
is raising my
should pressure
and constricting
the free flow of
The Mystery
to my vital
organs,
especially my
imagination.

High should pressure
will damage
your Soul.

It’s malignant
and may need
to be treated
by a team of
indolent
circus clowns,

skilled at
diagnosing and
surgically removing
superfluous
shoulds.

Be forewarned:
In extreme
cases
a colonoscopy
may be
required,
just to
loosen you up
a bit.

 

Cheekbones

With your
fingertips
touch your
cheekbones
and your
breastbone
and your
kneecaps.

This is you.

You are not
the writer
of that
novel you
just finished
with your
eyes
swimming.

You are not
that guy
across the street
who never lets
his gutters
get stuffed
with leaves
the way
yours are.

You are not
twenty pounds
lighter or
twenty years
younger.

Until you are
astonished
with your
good fortune
to be
The One
with those
cheekbones
and that
breastbone
and those
kneecaps,

it’s going
to be more
difficult
than it needs
to be
for you

to give us
the gifts
you came
all the way
here to
give us.

Take as long
as you need.
We’ll wait.

(Photo by Houcine Ncib; UnSplash)

 

By Their Fruit

So the story
is that
The Creator
planted a
beautiful garden
for his two
adult children,
Adam and Eve,

with gorgeous
flowers and
fruitbearing trees,
including one
with especially
luscious
fruit
the two
were forbidden
to eat.

“If you disobey,”
he said,
“you’ll learn the
difference
between
good and evil,
because
I’ll throw
you out of
the garden
and you will
die.”

“Why?
Because I said so.”

Entire
world religions
have been built
around this
tale,
bulging with
the muscle of
“because I said so.”

It’s mid-morning
on a coffee and
cinnamon roll
Saturday.

I hear a knock
on my door.
I open it to
find a pair
of bright-eyed
young men in
business attire.

They hand me
a tract
on which
is printed
“God Loves You.”

“Also,” one of them
says, smiling,
“we have some
luscious fruit
for you.”

“No,
thank you,”
I say,
“I’ve had
my fill
of
that fruit.”

(Photo by Katherine Hood)