the cat is again
in horse mode,
rearing up on two legs
and prancing the house
as if it were
her paddock…

perhaps she is 
a horse reborn?

I don’t care about
orthodox ladders of rebirth.
it is not a question of learning a dogma.
I am just idly asking:
if this is a sign of reincarnation,
is horse to cat
a step up or
a step back? 

I seek to understand my role
in her karmic cart wheeling.
I seek to know hers in mine.  

if she has
nine lives do they all
return at once?

that would explain a few things —
how it seems there always are
a lot of souls in her
asking for food.
a lot of souls in her
pushing hard enough 
on my old legs
to often make me
almost fall.

she is crashing about the place again.
she’s no saddle broken nag, 
this one.  

whatever the reason she’s here,
whatever the lesson she needs,
it’s one not to be learned through
obedience, lap sitting, purring.

neither, perhaps, is mine.

There’s not enough time —
we have to start now —
everyone, quick — 

each of us
has got to find common ground
at once with a fish — AT ONCE! and

it won’t be enough to say
“I have affinity with all living things” —
I’d call bullshit on that if it didn’t insult the bull —

one fish, two fish, redfish, bluefish: pick
a single fin-buddy and get cracking — learning
language, meeting the family —

it’s not been enough — the abstraction, the symbolism —
it’s not been enough — the fact of extinction and the stink
of oil balls in the sand — maybe

if we actually thought of
a few of these guys as neighbors
and friends it might be different —

not just for breakfast anymore — now
a tornado goes through their school
everyday — we eat the holocaust — soon

perhaps we’ll be the survivors
or the remnants and we’ll need
our friends — all the potential friends

we’ve been killing — dunno; maybe
it’s grasping at straws full of death
but we have to start somewhere and soon —

If I could be the 1990s,
I’d be
the O. J. Simpson trial.

You would go through me
certain
of certain things.

I would put on
airs and gloves
demonstrating that nothing fits.

Someone would notice
that the narrative
fails at key points,

and someone
would raise a fatal,
reasonable doubt…

then all hell would break loose
and you’d swear never to forgive me
for raising your prurient hopes. 

If I were the 1990s,
if I were the Simpson trial,
would you revisit me now?

Would you whisper 
“maybe I got it wrong?”
when you saw me again?

Would you take
all the factors into account
and reassess and realign?

If I were the 1990s
would you be willing 
to relive me

even if you could never be sure
that I was not the dark stain
you have always thought me to be?