DRIVING THE SICK ELEPHANT
Spoken Word & Music 
by Michael A. Arnzen

You mount the fat beast by climbing a frazzled rope
and marvel at how warm and solid the leather is beneath your heel
you always thought an elephant's flesh would be plump as a plush toy
or soft as a sofa cushion rather than this concrete gray skin
which doesn't register as feverish
until you make it to the top and climb aboard
where the whole gargantuan thing steams beneath you

the basket is as raspy as some import you might find at Pier One
made of bamboo and animal pelts and wicker 
and you sit so close to the driver you can smell his pungent sweat 
interlaced with the dung and humid mud of the jungle

and then your body slushes to one side
as the elephant takes its first step
lumbering forward to the left
then lurching cockeyed to the right
the basket slipping just the slightest bit
beneath you with each and every step
like some hastily slapped together carnival ride
and you're certain that whatever knot is fastening the van
to the beast will slip loose 
and slide down the sick elephant's side
until you're dangling upside down beneath its belly
every step threatening to decapitate you

but it doesn't
it just trundles
and you ride

the jungle is dark tonight
black glitters in the black
like coal in a miner's eyes
and the trees act like they're conspiring
to trip the lumbering elephant
which is heaving now like a beached whale
but trucking on

and you're getting into it
enjoying the way your body pivots
on the saddle of your own hips
as the beast methodically swaggers
until somewhere in the bush 
a bird's shrill squawk pierces the night
and the elephant rises up on its haunches
reminding you of its power
and your powerlessness
inside the frail wicker basket
which crackles like fire 
as its hasps split and fray

but it lands on all fours 
and with a hobbling gallop
runs deeper into the jungle
and soon all you can hear 
is the crunch of brush under its heavy feet
and the elephant's pained breathing --
it's wheezing -- it's actually wheezing
like its got tuberculosis
and you simply listen and wait

the palms dissipate and you see water ahead
a dark lake shimmering with moonshine
the elephant slows its pace
and you feel a sense of release
a cool chill as the elephant's ears flap like sails
and its trunk trumpets triumph

no -- it's pain
pain
and the elephant is staggering now
like a drunk who just discovered gravity
and its trunk is extended, looking for balance
spraying foamy snot that spatters your arms
it's hot and when you wipe the oily illness 
you smear something red
and with one final wail
the legs are collapsing beneath you
and the body falls

and you begin to realize 
you're just dreamin'
you're just playing
you're just a child, playing pretend
a child playing hobbyhorse
on the back of your dying grandfather


(c) 2005 by Michael A. Arnzen
download performance from www.gorelets.com