Beyond a gauzy curtain and a window streaked with dust and cobwebs
A cloudy sky hovers over an earth draped in summer green, and towards
This sky my thoughts leap, impudent and ineffective, like circus clowns,
Who really would have preferred to be leaping aerialists or motorcyclists
Who whiz round and round along the circumference of the Well of Death,
Transmuting the ache for sublimity into concrete moments of gravity defied.

Instead what I have are slapstick jokes performed by these fat men wearing
Masks of mimes, slapping each other around with loud unnatural noises,
Falling on their ass as they slide off bicycles with wobbly wheels, or better,
Stuffing themselves into a cannon like a sausage and reaching out from
Inside to set a match to the fuse. And following the explosion, these jokers
Instead of being airborne like comets, appear out of a cloud of smoke dressed
In colorful tatters to the loud thigh slapping laughter of the mob arrayed inside.




My Poems