When my unusual became routine.
And they came as dew to the
morning petals. As noon when
the markets settle.
Coy, the ever shifting focus of
millennial streams. The eclectic
dreams that we chase in never
ending stupor we deem.
When these ripples, purposeful
and willful, seep into my
pulse like an impatient
sculptor. That grace, that in
generations wane, will wax
when, ever hopeful, I see
you in an ever after.
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When my unusual became routine. And they came as dew to the morning petals. As noon when the markets settle. Coy, the ever shifting focus of millennial streams. The eclectic dreams that we chase in never ending stupor we deem. When these ripples, purposeful and willful, seep into my pulse like an impatient sculptor. That grace, that in generations wane, will wax when, ever hopeful, I see you in an ever after. – écrit avec mon stylo 1604 Lamy
There had to be you
In that tract I swallow through.
This moment after that I
savor and lament.
Those times before we spy
with instruments meant for
On this pond. This small body
that I try.
This last time I pen in
hopes to find you again.
The beginning of another strand.
Another skit. And I still
think of us in a land
where our home may stand.
If I had the agency to make you free.
That we could meet, no longer guilty,
and ease our minds to make amends.
For the times we wavered,
feeble with doubt, that defense
shrouds our minds.
If you had the regency of capitous time.
That we could bend, every rigid line,
that delineates this Camelot we found.
For those times we intersected,
ruly locked away, that I abscond
from time, hoping,
to see you smile.
If these days had the urgency of us.
That we could meet, as lovers must,
without the cruelty of parlay.
For these times we miss,
the pith of love, that we weigh
with scales, unassuming,
of one lovely day.
If you please, an enduring lease.
Bits of you, all of me.
Context rather than personality.
The consensus of identity.
In absentia, the thought inuring.
This play of ours, a yes to dreaming.
When awake I no longer see you.
When sleeping I held you.
We cannot be.
This tragic dramaturgy.
A pursuit never ending.
The lessor of our intent in default
of our pedigree. Our dive
so easy into that our
murmurs pledge unheeding.
Your navel to my brow leaves
etches of a mandarin complex.
A sense too tense, a lapse of
a sensibility wise to malcontent.
Still unravished. Quiet in this
chase where my lines repent.
My fleeing muse.
Am I almost to you?
To that beautiful closing
Stay your steps. Turn my way.
These irises. When they
find yours in an intimacy
too binding to break,
then will I know
compulsion to this
Know this is
When, at last, I am
faced with you.
I find myself drinking to numb what I’m unsuccessfully denying –
that I truly do want you in my life.
I know this means me as the man in your life.
A life you’ve created on your own and one that I’m learning,
as I’m growing, to cherish and honor as much as my own.
These stones I carry, heavy with the past of my misgivings,
become easy when sleeping I hold you tenderly.
With our foreheads touching – pressed in a loving
tête-à-tête that is telling of Shakespeare’s best musings.
All this happened so quickly in this head of mine
that rarely believes such possibility much less a real beginning.
So truly I see what might be – those things in your life
in close immediacy to mine.
If asked of this from a younger me,
I might not be so earnestly forthcoming.
The luxury of youth fleeting.
Your hand in mine a sign that the world is still steady.
A dot, pale and blue, that I never knew held intimacy.
This part of me that you now see.
Those moments of us yet to be
become dense with vulnerability;
but these insecurities fade when, as one with you,
I learn to love completely.
I resented you a bit.
Leaving as you did.
I faltered a bit.
Remnants that once hid.
The irony of proximity
with your face to mine
is hard to breach.
This almost treatise
between us teases
at what could be.
What once I drew from.
Numb with years.
What once you grew from.
Sums my fears.
The needless pageantry
I want you.
But you may
not see that
You resented me a bit.
Watching you walk amid
the midnight motes
swaying a bit under
the moonless grid
of our parting.
I think of you.
With the hope
I resented you a bit.
save me. it is all you can do.
when the last of the lines are off
the glass we fall to sleep
like cherubs from the sun –
dimming our way through
your smile was ethereal
in my hazy and haughty
heaven, and I tried to fly
just above your wings
so I could see you skimming
the tapestry of earth
like my breath over your
we are getting older.
wishing that our sleep
was no necessity.
the white snow capped on
your visage is mirage and
mirrors my fancy…..
mocks my memory.
you were beautiful. I
always knew, but I could not
touch you until now.
until we both fell from
our long flight like abandoned
creatures in a wasteland, and I cried
for your help.
That was a foolish notion I
Had entertained and memory
Will haunt beyond this childhood cry.
That I had raced with symmetry
Of soul and mind both tightly fused.
As one they raced with pounding heart
For beauty uncompared I mused.
To summon thought of her was art
And praises of that thought a hymn.
Love bordering idolatry.
Yet I to her was just a whim.
Now knowing in tranquility.
So scorned and mocked by vanity.
Her name no longer litany.
Look to the sea my love.
See you not its’ vast dispassion.
Look to the cliffs which hang over.
Do they gather the waves that crash on?
Have you any inkling my dear
Of the purpose of seabird flight.
Have you seen many horizons
Or the silver of dark water at night?
Hear you not the rocky grumble
Of dreamy sleep in the depths?
Its’ gentle echo resound and heard
In private nooks and secret clefts.
Do sea serpents rear great necks
Or mermaids in these waves swim?
Does the antique mystery of deep waters
Persist in midnight dreams of men?
Look again, beloved, and wonder;
Is this corner of earth too calm?
Here you are in my embrace.
So held you’ll not see harm.
Together we stand, gazing at the sea.
Lips that mumble suddenly still.
Let me draw you closer to me.
Our yearning hearts each other will fill.
But the sea!… The sea is dully dead.
Its’ body at content rest.
Neptune will not raise his ire
To pound these shores will zeal and zest.
But hark!… See the darkening skyline?
Are those clouds like wind to mast?
What strange breaks in monotony.
O’ my sweet!… The sea’s alive at last.
Inconstant, your definition bends.
My Lord. Your eyes. So brown. Condescends
My will and breaks my reverie. How?
I ask and why do I just now
Upon such revelation chance on.
The bird is dead. My thoughts like white bread.
I said before, “My soul can be read”.
To those with interest in context.
Let not the outer form so vex.
My grave for you to dance upon.
Cyrano De Bergerac (Ferrer)
O’ Poet with soldier sword
And duty to soul adorned.
Of plays whom thou art lord
But yet thy features scorned.
A gentle soul so well hid
By attitude hard and manners aloft.
Were that veneer cast and rid,
T’would reveal a heart most soft.
Poor Monsieur De Bergerac.
What a jest indeed.
Of honour, thou dost not lack.
A loving heart thou dost not need.
Whom dost thou love?
Worthy of thy verse.
A maid the rest above
With beauty thee must curse.
Roxanne the fair:
The beauteous rose.
Her soul thy care.
Her mind thou hast chose.
Thee, that women most plain
Would mock and despise
Would prefer to bear the pain
Of loving a hopeless prize.
Love her not Bergerac!
Make in truth, not feign,
The friendship act
And sane thy will remain.
Dost Roxanne not view
Thyself as worthy and true?
Platonic glances are so few;
Be satisfied with thus in lieu.
Yet Roxanne to thee appeal
To win another’s heart.
Thine will to her’s kneel,
As thy soul wrenches apart.
The dashing youth.
With eyes in blue set;
A soldier most couth.
Tis he Roxanne adores.
The bewildered man.
Tis he, as well, implores
Your aid to win Roxanne.
The love thou may uphold;
From thy breast unending spring.
Would not make thee so bold
As to refuse her gentle asking.
With laden mind, thou must embark
To make D’Nobilette shine.
Under guise, in cover of dark;
Roxanne thou wooed with words divine.
Thou hast achieved thy goal.
Roxanne now De Nobilette’s sweet.
At what cost? Thee only knows.
Her love only in dreams to greet.
So forlorn. To life despair.
A tear to past and misery shed.
When wings of war fly the air;
Now to death seek thee to wed.
Nobilette rides thy side
To clash arms ‘gainst foe.
There he falls to reaper’s tide.
His death Roxanne’s woe.
With final breath so weak,
He did ruefully admit.
The silent denials of heart speak:
Roxanne loved more thy charm and wit.
Then away he passed
To upper planes and fields unknown.
How pitifully Roxanne wept alas.
Her sorrow a mirror to thine own.
The years have turned
With hopes waiting to be.
Fourteen summers have burned,
Yet still she knows not thee.
Love unrequited. Silence its ward.
Long nights hast thou slept,
Thy hand on restless sword.
Longer days with thy secret kept.
Thine enemies conceive a plot
To finally cast thee down.
Your subtle wish at last begot;
The bells knell a bitter sound.
Delirious thou stumbles blind
To seek and find dear Roxanne.
The inflicted wound clouds thy mind
To clutch at breast with shaking hand.
Thou finds her in serene church.
Her visage the same as past.
She looks up to thy painful lurch
And holds thy falling body fast.
There upon her bosom in locket lay
The letter of thine own hand.
Without a glance thou recites away,
Word for word, thy heart’s demand.
Impending darkness maliciously cloaks
The final vision of thy lovely sweet.
If her eyes thee saw and sobbing choke,
Mayhap angels thou would regret to meet.
Roxanne does love at end.
Thy soul does she realize.
Thine spirit will never bend,
Thy love in her heart now lies.
Thus thee so dramatically dies.
In the arms of thy life’s love.
Laughing softly when thee flies
Into the embrace of heaven above.
like an old boulder,
a dusty mantle,
played out metaphors,
well worn similes,
proverbs partial to partisanship,
phrases plied for platitudes,
then there is me.
like earth rising,
I grope through the strata.
earthly layers of my epidermal flesh.
I countdown to my final blessing in random order.
seven. vanity. I smile for hidden eyes.
six. envy. I seek to be a philistine.
five. gluttony. I would indulge exuberance herself.
two. sloth. Probably why I am already on two.
one. you. how else would there be this at all?
silence. slow, sweet silence for my soliloquy.
I rhyme therefore iambic….
I smile as should you.
~fermenting the evening sky~
Just take the wine from me
So I can taste your whisper.
Just leaving was so very easy-
Convictions blur. They blur…..
Just like the sheen of skin through MethyleneDioxy.
aMphetAmine and meth concur.
They swirl upon my track of undisputed melancholy.
To time I now defer.
The passing thought – I’m guilty.
Just stoned as sin I’m sure.
I’m stuck; just weighing heavily.
The sky down under.
I’ve lost my unity……
My death’s unseen son invites me.
What cornish games we play to rhyme.
A byte of reason.
Now pass the wine to me-
My eyes have yet to slur.
So very plush, my love.
Your vial of vile
Your penchant for
It is the same with me;
With my wit and mind
And all that could not be.
cast concrete concepts
pulling me along.
Riding my hitch.
Speckled by dirt.
Dragging a tear above
the rising ruckus of
My sin is pretending
that this matters.
Yours is knowing
We rise from sleep
~happy to forget~
Tear my letter.
Unmake the insignia of my name.
Do not wait for me as I march blindfolded.
The orbit of my pen on the planet of our dream.
Rising sin evolving and spinning –
Making me dizzy.
Driving me underground.
The metrics of my entombing become more than the measure of six.
It implies a sleeping and remembering; a waking and forgetting that
Stark to the black of my past
And the blue of my crimes yet
Browning the casket panels of my lids.
My eyes seek the world.
Might trees be given slower speech
Than that which blood possesses in
A manner human and of flesh.
Yet the soul of wood does manifest,
Mature and strong, a sublime effect.
For such ambition runs deep in
All beings reaching and finding,
Inexorably, the far sky.
i lay etherized.
that morning my bio readings were fine.
my heartrate was perfect.
my bloodpressure – fine.
sagittal lines were drawn
for precision incision.
i was to be deconstructed.
i was to be arbitrary for six
6 hours of numbness.
6 hours of insensation.
6 hours of twilight.
i lay like a by-product
of you and society,
and i could not move
to get away.
i was michelangelo’s brood,
and in the cauterization
i was the anthropomorph.
see my form?
whisper your approval.
give me your wetness
for a keepsake and i will
cherish you forever in the
deadened designs of the ether.
i lay etherized,
and i thought only
of the garden.
grasping at seams.
stitches that mean nothing
when i save them.
a rag and rhyme
that hitches my disarray.
fey, love, just fey.
the lining on your
a silver canteen
i yearn to press my
my wit, that is…
let me whip out my wit..
to press against your hip.
let it stay there.
soothed by your discretion.
the indiscreet tuning of
let it stay there
until it gyrates.
until we inundate the
wellspring of who we are
with sleeping pills
and whispers goodnight.
here is the void.
a choice cut of misery.
fallen blue and chanced on green.
ever see the unseen dance naked on your table?
unstable me and dizzy you.
like angels at the bar.
far and few in between…
your thighs sizing up
dipping into you
was frozen fear
of my own
don’t you know?
we grow on fancies
and pretend fallacies –
denying the world of
our precious precociousness.
we knew long before.
before the fall.
before the slip.
before lips like ours
found each other.
look for me, love.
find me and let
me know that i can
~we are they~
they came upon the evening
hands held in the lamppost light.
a line had formed-
melding with the side
of the building.
willing themselves on,
they grabbed the tail.
victim to the whole.
the stale shade of winter
made them swoon.
too soon into the night.
too early for the tuxedo
black and trite.
too gaudy was
much to our delight.
we mocked them in the banality
of our scorn.
we locked them in unseen
cages and threw the key
to the mob.
we stocked our cellars with
cruelty and dispensed
our wine for laughter.
our smirks made us divine.
we could judge the crime
of originality in
our world matted in gray.
we knew they were not
to be like us,
and we loved our
industries and made
effigies of them.
they were no longer at the end
of the line.
they were part of the draconian body.
they laughed to each other.
they covered the others face with kisses.
they left and moved away.
the line healed itself.
stitched by the constituency
of conviction –
my comrades at arms.
urban bass and lyric.
pop and blue rhythm.
the body was strong again.
we made demons of the
shadows cast by they
must it be right and just?
they were almost whores
there is damsel distress on your dress.
the train is coming and I am
growing bold as should every bard
coming of age on
it sounds and knells
what delphi fortells:
so oedipus, antigone and us
are blind and bound to masquerade as such.
pacific pacification and
bearing down on us.
I can feel the rumble shaking
in the fold of the horizon –
a mechanical, urban beast ready to devour.
I can feel the coils taking
too long to spring (too trivial) – on course.
All magic is tragic.
That makes me a thaumaturge.
A sigh escapes me.
A tongue warped by wisdom.
I have to let you go.
a villan is laughing somewhere
and the train is on the go.
i should unbind you for
the conservatists and the droll.
no miracles today. I could not save you,
because I let you go.
escher spires in the dusk.
flowing in and back and up.
architecture that must
make me mad
this endless toil
of finding reason.
like finding you.
predestination is a skullcap to creativity.
and I’ve created you
strand by wispy strand.
a route of mimicry.
I am a creature like you.
Wilde told me to say so
for the sake of art-
decadence in our need
to flatter beyond
wider than the mock seas we have
placed between and before us.
hushed in the lining of our
need for old
break my heart now or
never lie again.
we swim in the dim
of hallowed settings.
the sun has run and
the argo moorings
are no longer needed.
stiff iron –
the ferris wheel
of lacquered seals
on equine heels.
round and round we laugh.
did you want the buggy?
the idle shoe?
the circular path so lovely
in gold, green, and
let me kiss you with my eyes.
my lips will not reach from
here – from the
no, your mermaid body,
run through by a carnival
spear, is just as quick
as my trusty steed.
need will not close
we believe in running,
in circling, in cycles
attuned by fancy.
we believe in the brush and pen –
stabbing ourselves with art.
up and down and again.
if you knew how my white horse
thrilled at the chase.
wooden sinew with a soul
carved from that which
made us all.
your laugh blinds you.
Aloe caresses fall on her skin.
The dermatology of mythology.
Midway down her length,
Iridescence scales my eye.
Maritime and so sublime-
“Bring me to the waters.”
She was climbing like a phantom.
Trapped in something unlike altitude.
She could not breath or voice.
Her hair and neck moist.
I was crying to see her like so.
A shrine was waiting for the old world chemistry.
The alchemy to make her like me-
Foolish and proud
And eager for death by sophistry.
We were all lied to.
Her most of all.
Enthralled by love.
Now I was just afraid –
Deathly scared of dying too early or of
All my doing would not be mine.
All that should have been mine might not be.
Faltering. Flailing. Fucking my psyche.
She drank the last the blue,
Took the final due from my
Dying and drowning in our air.
high and fortified.
i make way through the milling of the city proper.
stiletto jabs on the pavement.
what marked lines
that shoes define.
You mocked me on the corner
with the small of your back
pressed against the wind.
You and i rubbing the 3 feet of
metaphorical space between us.
friction dealt a neurotic hand.
it seems i do this every morning
on my way to the parthenon.
…and the fall of sharp heels
drag that thought way behind
the round small of my head and neck.
You and i passing.
like ancient metropolitans in the
morning cast of drones.
I say that we hold our arms akimbo.
Brace ourselves in the sun’s fading rays.
Whisper, “I am sorry.”
Je suis un imbecile sot.
Reaching for flowers with soiled hands.
My lovely dahlia.
I wish you would not turn away so.
I know of my soul.
My fallen columns and crooked rows.
I know…I know…I know.
So what now?
Can I leave a trace of who I am on your pillow?
Where I traced my face once before?
My lovely flower.
Your hands are so cold.
It’s blue like the moon in my sultan seas,
and I float and gloat on memories of thee
in trees with bees about your knees.
Aphrodite of my tongue – seashells if you please.
Rising from the ocean – tang on your breath.
What’s left in the musty dialogue between our souls.
If what was and what might be were any indication of
this then we could be free in the ever flowing words
in the old molds of cold rhymes and stanza folds.
What made me do this?
What makes you tick?
If I could but touch that one place
where we meet then I might not
be so crazed at the very thought
of going back – back to the delays
and forays and neurasthenics
that drive me from sleep
and keens at your every
I burned our pictures, tore the
core of our keepsakes and let
the ash flake into nothing
on the rug of our mistake.
I would like nothing more than
to quit. Sit like a catatonic
on the edge of dull wit. Flit
in the stream of my inward river
of affirmation kits and meet you
by the broken curbs of dim lit
minds. I laugh. We often laugh
at situations like this. Without
remiss and without recourse.
Think again, love.
Of course, I am free.
i wanted nothing but the skins.
deep within my fettered whims.
all over again –
your eyes on mine and lost time.
nothing foretold this from the first
time we met. nothing means this
when we fall to forget
in each others arms like sunset.
like nothing i have felt
in all these years. i cannot bear
the thought of this.
another red consumed by flame
and names and faces called
by blame. sadness smells of smoke
and look at us now – no longer smiling,
no longer enamored by something new.
old before our time but trapped in
the old ways that trend the young
lives we live. i am so sorry.
i would bleed as i have done many
times before from need.
let out the passions and angst
that makes me the man i am.
a long river of red like the endless
miasma sparked from crime and creed.
if we could walk the earth like
children and make ourselves free.
but no, we talk of saturn in Jupiter’s
phase and daze the last of sunlight
with marzen and grammar fit for
if our signs were any indication of the
designs of our intention then we
could embrace with your face to mine.
running your fingers over the
shade of my demeanor.
your thighs an Elysée
for my pompous return to
humanity. i feel you even
keener. even when i see the
devil in your skirt. the succubus
in your smile……the incubus of
my heart. selfishness and the subtle
hypocrisy of sacrifice. it would be unfair
for me to kiss you again and say that
it is authentic like my smile.
…and all the while we wait for something
that may never come, that may never be in
the decadent rules of our denial and
diffidence. i feel short of breath.
and the fall of your hair is death
to my need to be generic like
some Tychoon in Passo’s parallel – easy
like the flapper
manual in my uneasy hands.
i can almost trip and fall to the floor
with hands clasped to a God i never
trusted. if i could but see you
again in the salt and searing
blear of my guilt, i would tell
you that i wished we were stars in
a constellation full idyllic pastures
that held nothing but the fruit of
nothing ever held me long or consistently.
i could never sell the parts of me that were
the most desirable. it falls to you to make
me pliable in the lasting rigidness of who
i chose to be. if you could see what i wished we could. the stars and
the old hills still untouched, the last of lucy’s shade
in the flowers by ancient cottage doors….and what for?
we only see the moist catch of iconoclasts like us.
though we do nothing for change, we change
sitting across from you.
velvet between us.
thrusting through the feathered fold
i am cold. emotionally myopic
i am told.
shaved ice. soft and not yet old
has slid down forming
the brim of my cup steals my smile.
the eyes – bewildered by caffeine, domesticated by cream;
teems and leaps at the hush of your surprise.
be with me.
can we be?
five years of this and i
find that i might forget
if you do not see
the idea of us…the notion of
sidewalk cafes always predicate
situations like this and i
feel the pedestrian
rhythm of your breath
saddling my own.
can we be?
~The Eleventh Hour~
The eyes persist to fold the flesh within
The broadness of imagination’s space.
Perhaps it is the space from brow to cheek.
Perhaps it is the fall from sense to sleep.
Or maybe just the frequencies of night,
Thus captured in the cricket’s chimed reprise,
Which mellows the ambivalence of this
Conundrum nailing its way far too deep.
This thought of light most often in the night,
The paradox of stillness in dream flight,
Rebellious breath that stirs the comatose,
Diurnal route like the dichotomy
Of saints and fiends, like Siamese, conjoined;
And I am but a shade away from twelve.
my clown is lovely when she is cracked…..tightroped and lipped to
shear her own lungs…. my clown is lovely when she is cracked……
caustic and clitted to her own tongue.
my clown is fallen and away.
she is cracked.
she is bleeding.
she is in the carnival eye.
the ringmaster’s whore that i adore.
she is far and away.
clown makeup so fae and fey-
a tear streaking as it may.
spectate. see her?
inside the ring – the hub of her thing.
my clown is so adorable when
prattling on the silver shore….paddling my
aquatic whore….the wind may play a sultry
mix…spin like veils 7 times removed from
licked lips….if only they would ease my
broken harp….strung like carcasses upon the
white rum over your silly, presbyterian
dress……elmer’s glue in between the
toes……have you a hankerchief,
dear?…silly me…..let me reload
as it was meant to be…..tygers and lambs and
cosmic trees….collision forbode and
separation fortold……what’s right and
wrong, vintage and old……i have been sold
long before this…… the devil’s
advocation is not remiss on my soul and
kiss…..if wishes flew on wings like
this…then to hell’s womb would i drift…..
Most days are like Monday….slow and
fey…..in stone we lay. Fingernails on the
underside of our boat to hell, but oh well.
Wish me well, my clown. We cannot sell the
vibrance of intent to the crowd. Shrouded as
we are. Lauded for our speech. Let us teach
the folly and hypocrisy. Then, perhaps, we
would not wish for death so keenly…..
akimbo paradoxes like you and me……dawn and
dusk…..standing high when the sun hung
low….you and me…..each on the other’s
whisper…and I knew….as we flew…drawn to
flesh…..gouged by our
the shade so we may lay
on 12/8/2000 she wrote:
>From: “Bob Inurelap”
>Subject: “Love..love will keep us together..”
>Date: Fri, 08 Dec 2000 22:38:22 -0000
> Hi..my name is Tsui Monkey and I’m an alcoholic.
> It started at birth. My momma monkey, left my
> daddy for a big gorilla. I was then tossed about
> from palm tree to palm tree. I eeked out a miserable
> existence in the forest. Eating from furry hand to furry mouth.
> I was beat up and abused for years by a gang of rabid,homosexual
> chimps. I ran away to the city, where I lost myself.
> Alone, I found myself in bars. Lonely, hairy and flea ridden.
> I began drinking heavily. Turning to female street performing
> monkey girls. You know..the ones that do it for money.
> I found a job with the circus. It was there that I found
> The answer to all my prayers.I was riding a bike..while standing
>on my head.
> She was wearing a big red nose. Red curly wig. The most
> beautiful clown I have ever seen in my life. I was instantly
> smitten, bitten by a love bug with fangs. After our act, we
> would meet, late at night. Behind the elephant cages. And while
> the smell was overbearing..it had little effect on us. Steamy
> nights in the hay..over and over. Our love grew like wild weeds
> and dandelions..high and plentiful. She would whisper sweet
> nothings in my ear..and I, oh I would spout verse. Our souls..
> salsa danced. Our passion..was like a Ricky Martin video born to
> I asked for her hand one hot, smelly night..and she said yes.
> It was the happiest day in my life..the happiest night.
> We kissed as one. Monkey and clown. I heard Captain and Tennille
> playing in my mind..I heard Lionel Ritchie, and Celine Dion.
> The next day. Oh god. The next day. It was a normal routine.
> My clown was on the high wire. She was tightrope walking..like
> she’d done a million times before. She was so beautiful. Those
> shoes..that hair. She looked over and smiled at me..I was
> driving a little car. It was then I saw her lose her balance.
> She teetered..back and forth for a second and than fell..
> like a 100 pound sack of bricks.
> She fell until she couldn’t fall anymore. Until she was
> a flat..red..stain on the earthen floor of the big tent.
> I cried that night..I cried, and drank. I drank myself into
> oblivion. I was fired from the circus. I wandered aimlessly
> on the streets. I drank myself into the hospital.
> I missed my clown so much I didn’t want to live.
> In the hospital I met a psychiatrist. He ran many tests on me.
> Including the Rorschach test..and I saw her. A red ink spot on
> the white flash card..MY CLOWN. It was then I knew..I needed to
> change..I needed to get better….that night in my sleep,
> I heard it..The Captain and Tennille..singing. I knew
> it was her, and I knew what I had to do..
> My name is Tsui Monkey..and I’m
> an alcoholic..
… and I replied the same night:
red inkblots on the card make remarkable scenery.
it is unnecessary beauty on top of beautiful abstraction.
i found her in the miasma of psychiatric interpretation.
the silly clown.
blotting out my sanity.
i was in the Thurber carnival.
it was daunting, alien…carnal.
nights at the circus were
never like this.
without remiss in the burlesque.
there was no hope
that it would ever end.
hyperbole threatened at
every bend – sending
there she was.
prancing about singing
the harlequin chant
in the cacophony of air horns.
i saw this mordantly:
the smudge of mascara,
the caustic red of her lips,
the well formed bridge of her nose
under the circus cherry.
she swayed a seven veiled dance
in caricature shoes.
i felt myself rising at
something that should
have made me wince
in the womb.
my sense of the world
was less firm than ever-
a tomb of viscera
that choked my resolve
“So what do you see?”, my psychiatrist whispered.
“A kidney…that’s all.”
I could breathe again.