The Clown
practices his silly acts
in the circus of minutes.
Rainbows snake, kink, and frizzle
from his scalp. It takes him hours
to paint his torturous face,
just to get it sad enough.
Mime is the art that sparkles
in the night show of his life.
His friends are siamese twins,
his bastard child a human
cannonball. For wise counsel,
he eavesdrops the dreams of freaks.
Juggling is his calculus,
slapstick his highest physics.
On the straw of beasts he sleeps.
His mute soul rings with laughter.
Larry D. Thomas
Posted over on Right Hand Pointing
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