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Poem

I did not plan to be a single cell amoeba
or this me, a conglomerate jigsaw of a being
a million times removed from primordial goo.
I was peacefully inanimate at times
endowed only with a little foggy awareness and contentment.

At one time I was George Washington’s commode,
Shortly before that, King Georges Whoopi cushion,
yet there was never any great blueprint 
for my random appearances on this fat round globe.
No design, only once in a while,
an accidental hominine arrival 
panting from a million journeys, a similitude 
of what a human could be - given very much more time.

Reincarnation is a flawed theoretical conundrum.
No one ever claims to have been something made
by a bored passing tinkerer, yet creation is creation
after all.

Hundreds of times has Cleopatra 
been lived-in like an old recliner in a nursing home,
is it any wonder that her image now
sags like a broken concertina?

I once (maybe several times) was a dog,
once a dogs dinner dish.
animation is often overrated; being stoically stiff
has its own rewards.
Dogs on the other hand,
are pretty good prototypes of a model human being.
Many ladies have been inhabited
by my wolfish lechery,
alas only I do not recall those pleasantries.

It’s not easy being a multicellular organism
I long for simpler times,
however I can do this, I may even devise a plan
to jump a generation or two of aspiring exemplars,

but I must wait for my brain to stop swelling
then shrinking like a bullfrogs throat
which recalls to mind a time 
spent wallowing in Mississippi mud -
passionate nights I remember all too well.

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