I traced my finger

down along the spine

of an old lover.

Memory came

and drew it all back

in black

and white,

like a silent film.

Dancing the Charleston,

burning the Hindenburg.




Some of these aren’t mine,

I’m sure of it,

but  this visual age

has built my memory palace

and thus,

parts of it exists in this world,

and some

in another.


Scratch the surface

and the water pours in,

bringing buoyancy and balance.

Breach the containment

and things start to get out,

first a finger,

then a whole hand.


Then what’s next?

Head and shoulders,

knees and toes

and an attitude?

What am I supposed to do with that?

What a silly thing;

to dig the mind in,

mining for diamonds,


that aren’t mine.


Past life intrudes on present time.

If that’s the case

then my present life

could intrude on future ones.

Now I’m confused

and in proper Canadian fashion;


and writing this apology

to my future incarnation.


“Sorry Bro,

hope the next one’s better.”


I guess this one’s been pretty good;

maybe too good.

Karma is a real bitch, I hear

and I could be dooming Future Me

to the life of a Mudskipper;

dragging my unevolved body

through the muck and mud

and shit

of tomorrow’s world.


Maybe that’s not so bad?

I’m not about to do worse.

So sorry, Mudskipper Me,

you’re better off that way.

Reincarnation is confusing.

Best leave it to chance

and let my fingers

trace my past

in safe recollection.


HG -2018

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