He began by admitting
its appeal, admitting
that the mere whiff of it
would so often shank
his more outlandish
fantasies,
and that he was kind of
in love
with the sight
of all that green blood.

He invited in
and gave it a bath
in salt water.  Dumped
a whole shaker into
a pan and slipped it in.

The next time
he imagined a rogue elephant
trampling his nemesis,
he let it in to the room,
set it up
on a little stand, a lap desk
perhaps, and listened
as it advised him
how to really get over
on all that bother.

He’d plod by the closet
where he kept 
the ritual vestments
and resolved to hit up Goodwill
for some worn Dickies
and green workshirts
before the next service.

It took a little while, 
but he got a real job.
Gave up the fire harvesting
and the raising of gryphons
for their talon dust.
Started
punching in and measuring time
in clicks and increments,
rather than in depth and flow.

Once he was stable,
he’d get home from work every day
and coo all night to the little one.
C’mere, my baby, my spreadsheet,
my Reddenbacher bag, he’d say.
C’mere and flue me, grue me, do me,
backbend screw me till I don’t want
the weird ever again.

You think: hey, I’d never be happy like that.
If you say that to him, now, he’ll say:

don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.
Try it first and then knock it: I recommend that.
It’ll open up like a door
to another door, exactly the same
as the previous one.  
I haven’t gone through that one yet,
but I anticipate pretty much
the same thing will happen,
and you wouldn’t think so,
but it’s kind of a relief.
I’m kind of in love with it.