Death of a Meme

Words attach meaning to events
the way generals pin medals on soldiers.
One man's soiled underwear is
another man's erotic stimulation.
If I say dog, you salivate;
If I say cat, you grow whiskers.
Sometimes a bagel is
the Empire State Building.
Who would you be without
the morning paper?
You might eat the telephone
or send your scrambled eggs
through the mail.
ABC's are counted like rosaries
to keep the sun in the sky
and the earth under your feet.
Legend tells us that long ago
people were permeable
like clouds and wind,
before industrious alphabets
filled their buzzing honeycomb heads,
and inky black abstractions
infested paper-white picnics
in regimented lines,
eating the juicy meat and
leaving the rind.
Words make audacious claims
like Mormons at your door.
I say beat them over the head--
don't worry about the police.
Grind those words into flour
and bake them into bread.
Cut them up and smear them
on the walls of your cave.
Stir them in a stew
and serve them on a plate.
Free them from the scrabble-board
to transubstantiate.

David W. Aronson
June, 2002