Mistaken Books

I've never belonged to your world
of beer and feathers.
When my eyes and ears still wobbled
in my silly-putty head,
you wrapped my rainbows in
newspaper, like a fish.
How calcified and contracted your experience;
a small animal's dried-up turd.

A single sweet garden taste
set off your freeze-dried dehydration.
Your jealous withered palsied hands
applauded cave-wall flickers.
Too slippery! Too fast! you croaked
in a fearful strangled wheeze.
Too big! Too many! Too much! you gasped
in a beaten child's whimper.

You poor heartbroken lovers,
you fallen crippled angels,
propped up in your dusty boxes of sleep.
You spectators, you ersatz skeletons,
with your bottles of reconstituted laughter.
What a travesty, what an abortion!

If I wanted to, I could be your dog
and sniff out your bone.
I could tie your shoes and buckle your belt,
pull your arms through your sleeves
and your head through your collar.
I could hex you and turn you into a toad.
I could book you on my talk show
and ruin your reputation.
I could take your hesitant hand
and walk you across the street
where there is always so much more
of earth and heaven waiting...

David W. Aronson
November, 2004