and you can speak, from memory, oh so long ago imbedded into your soul,
about the past, and history, and your place in it, how you struggled
in the heat and the dust near the Great Pyramid of Giza,
how you gazed into the mirror of your beloved,
how you took a bow with your fellow thespians, in Greece,
how a sycophant betrayed you in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles,
how he kissed you before the duel when he was murdered for you
—in the country somewhere, in the South--
and you were forced to marry the victor. Or
how you didn't starve during the famine that killed your child,
that's the source of the nagging pain in your side,
and you can feel—it's still very real— the leeches placed on your chest
though of course with these primitive mechanisms of medicine,
you bled to death. Is this why
you fear the scalpel so?
Were you cauterized in a tribal-rite clitorectomy?
Were you a castrato?
When your teeth rotted in Spain in the 17th century,
what had you done that was remiss?
Where does it now fit?
Was, perhaps, the Armada involved?
Because it's yours, it's your Karma, buddy, it's your problem
It's your history, and history is your problem.
It's your responsibility, now,
to change the tire on your neighbor's car
because you once beheaded him because he once beat you at a game of chess
when you were the King of France, when you were ruthless.
And now you're not ruthless: see, there's a kind of symmetry involved.
Albert Einstein may already have come back,
maybe he's a kid,
maybe he's in the womb and is about to be born.
Maybe he'll arrive by space-ship.
These are extraordinary times, of course—that's why.
Have we ever felt the tenor of the spiritual with such force before?
Is this not the end of time?
Oh, I don't know. It's weird, all right, and it's kind of neat
to bear the children while wearing a costume from the Middle Ages,
to wait for the Pony Express to ride into town,
to be the shaman for the Eskimos,
to be the butler for Henry Ford!
George Washington's dentist—where is he now?
History, after all, doesn't belong to Cinderella, or to Henry VIII,
or to Jesus—perhaps you wiped his forehead before the Crucifixion--
Well, wouldn't it be fun to think about?
And it might help you work out the problem you're having with your father
or with the guy at the 7-11 who constantly berates you,
who once even hurled a doughnut at you--
(You rowed together in a ship just like in "Ben-Hur")
Anyhow, who does it harm
(since you were once Mozart, send in the harpsichord music now)
if you pay to be hypnotized and to find out
how karmic or unkarmic you are?
Oh, no, it's not just kidding around, really--
You'll never know for sure if you were really a monk once,
but if you were—well, wow.