A giant lived on a broken down school bus in the woods by our house
and the blue sky above was the inside of a head.
I believed that a tornado could really carry you to a place like Oz
if it was tight enough,
and that there everything could be turned into something golden.
Once I even tried to blow up a creek with cherry bombs
thinking the explosion would turn the streambed to crystal.
I loved the idea of the jewel hidden inside.
I thought I was like that.
I even tried flying in my sleep and got pretty close too,
because when I awoke for real the room would make a humming sound
and the television would sort of snap back into shape.
As far back as I can remember
I was trying to move through what was familiar to me
and become empowered by being less.
With imagination as my body I could do anything.
Until once in a dream I flew into a crabapple tree
and couldn’t get out for a while.
I told myself sometimes being a prisoner is needed
in order to learn how to transcend attachment.
Then I wanted to be like my grandfather
who I used to think was like a druid who was above power,
who put all his energy into picking strawberries with us kids,
because he thought you should let yourself be a garden for others
as a counterbalance for inherent greed,
and that being picked clean by needy hands is a service to humanity.
So what happened?
Because now I look in the mirror
and rather than seeing myself as a saint with dentures
cleaning out Fig Newton’s with a toothbrush, a humble spot
of cancer just beginning to beg for money under my eye,
I see someone way better:
A middle aged man whose eyes can barely stay open with a beard
that looks like it got loose from the ocean,
and I feel sore all over in a way I can’t describe,
but will try anyway when I compare it to being beaten all over by fairies
or more likely, poked excessively,
because they shouldn’t have to find it so difficult to get my attention.