The Time-Traveler's Dilemma
We asked the English professor who
He would most like to dine with, and upon what,
If ever modern technology came to the point where
He could go back to the time when
Some favored author lived. And then, why
Austen and falafel? At that time, we eschewed the question of how,
But later asked the physics professor how
Probable it was that a time-traveler who,
Having invented time-travel, and having so traveled, could return, and why,
If it was as probable as he said, it had not been done yet, when
We had such fascinating technology already, what
With all the blinking lights and space-age clothes we wear.
We asked the theology professor where
The soul would end up if the body time-traveled, how
Should it maintain integrity, when
Its housing chassis should be dismantled, pulled out. Who
Would risk it? But is that the only objection--because of what
We can prove about the soul? Which is zip. If that's not it, why
Object? So we asked the business professor, why
Not capitalize now that we've come to the point where
Our fearsome captains of industry might learn what's what
With time-travel. With a little research, we'll have the know-how;
We can make it work. And shouldn't it be us who
Get in on the ground floor? And if not now, when?
We asked the geography professor when
The best time to travel to would be, for weather purposes. What
Time would be coziest for persons of our nature, who
Are accustomed to central heating and wicked AC. Where
Should we start from, so as not to end up inside a volcano, and how
Could we be sure? Are there maps of the past, or what?
Finally, we asked the professor of rhetoric what
We should put in the grant application for time-travel, and when
Is the due date to submit? What department is in charge, and how
Should we frame our request? We'll need a few billion, natch. Why
Stint ourselves? This is the future of progress we're talking about here! Where
Would the world be without visionaries and the men who
Are willing to fund them? I won't speculate. Who could deny the import of what
We're doing, fulfilling humanity's destiny of going where and when
It pleases? Nobody. Why should they bother? It's happening -- just a matter of how.
____________________
ALL MY REINCARNATIONS ARE HAPPENING NOW
I stand on the platform at Chambers Street having
My daily fantasia of how I will save myself when
A raving maniac pushes me onto the track and the
Oncoming 3 train is rumbling toward me and I
Must avoid the third rail at all costs while using
Upper body strength granted by the fear of death
To hurl myself back onto the platform. Death
Is momentarily avoided by the train's having
Arrived in station. Entering the car and choosing
A seat keeps me in realtime a moment, but when
I'm seated, I have my daily fantasia wherein I
Fight vampires in a dark alley while wearing the
Type of leather coat they had in The Matrix, and the
Bitch-ass shoes I saw last week at Macy's. I am death
With wooden bullets as I dispatch legions of undead. I
Have a soundtrack. It is Basement Jaxx, having
The time of their lives spinning for my mighty self, when
The train comes to a halt, and I rise into a sky fusing
Daylight into darkness, the last rays of sun losing
Their battle with night. Now is the time when
I dream of being an innocent victim, the
Kind whose memoirs win Nobels, grind death
To a halt in some backwater nation. Having
Four blocks to go is just enough; I
Am writing my Nobel acceptance speech; I
Am thanking the Academy; I am musing
As to whether to wear western dress or, having
My choice, what oppressed culture's native costume--the
Woven poncho, the cotton sari--would honor the death
Of my countrymen as well as my beauty. When
I reach the stairs to my apartment, that's when
I switch gears, imagine a domestic life where I
Have no children yet and a husband whose tragic death
Loads me up with lucre and freedom. I'm cruising
In my yacht, in my Rolls. Materialism doesn't hurt me; I'm the
Type of person who isn't ruined by having
It all. Having all that cash, I give it away. And when
I turn the key and die, looking down from heaven, I
smile, perusing my epitaph: Maureen -- beloved in life; wept in death.
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