I salute you little man,
sitting in your easy chair,
watching the kaleidoscope of life.
The flickering images,
yours to interpret, to filter,
to massage into a lump of the thought
you desire, devour, project.
No one knows who you really are,
hiding behind the screens of experience,
emotions, beliefs, scraps and bits.
Dorothy’s curtained wizard manipulating,
pulling stage ropes, flipping the switches.
Each time the mouth speaks,
you are the hand choosing the words.
Every instance a touch is felt,
you are the sense given.
The heart and brain only apparatuses
to contain you, comfort you, feed you.
A masochistic misologist person,
twisted, distorted by grappling
with your own contradictions.
I love you and I loathe you,
the ying and yang of my soul,
infantile patriarchal spark with in.
The Mini Me puppet master, marionette,
Freud’s das Es, the id sewn flesh to flesh,
my didactic homunculus self.
© 2009, Donald Harbour