ellipses

Just after dusk
I have the lights dim,
I have a tiny person
looking at me from the palm
of my hand.
The volume on the stereo increases.
What a glorious day:
a pleasant blue sky background
for the tiny person on my hand
who thinks I should paint;
I should paint
a painting
of a man's torso
popping out from a kangaroo's
pouch, pointing
a shotgun up
at the kangaroo's skull,

but
since when
do I let these miniature
people
do my thinking for me?
He says nothing,
just stares up at me;
each vibration of the music
tunnels separately
(like light broken through a prism)
into my ear canal

and it suddenly gets louder:
I mean, monkeys banging cymbals
tidal waves collapsing
complete hysteria!
and then it gets quiet, delicate:
a mouse tip-toeing
across chilly tile.

The little person on my hand,
his eyes roll back in his head
& paragraphs & paragraphs of green font
speed down the whites of his eyes
too quickly to be read
or I'm just too tired
to try to read them
I don't know
I don't care
I wonder if he has his mother's dimples
or his father's feet.
My brother can strike matches
across his 5 o'clock shadow;
I wonder if the little guy can do that.

A moment before
I become interested
in the words scrolling down
the whites of his eyes,
he closes them
then opens them
when I look up
to this giant person
who holds me in the palm of his hand.

He has beautiful eyes,
his irises shaped like emeralds;
I shut my eyes
and wonder about creating my own
secret universe
with my own two hands--
a place of enormity
where time is flexible,
where colors & sounds,
ideas & waves & ellipses
can only be true
when a small observer perceives them
--and only then--
but the complexity of such
meaningfulness blinds me
so I open my eyes,
and turn up the stereo,
perplexed at the presence
of a tiny person in the palm
of my hand.