a clown is seated backstage
as a murder of makeup crows
beat his face for the night's show.
it's not his first day on the job.
throughout his life he's seen millions
watch him as he trips, panders,
as an unglorified whore to the country's love
for public humiliation.
the madhouse opens at midnight
and as the clock chimes 11 times
he is already up and about
practicing falling in a funny manner
to appease his audience.
12 chimes, and he steps out onto the stage,
there's a goofy smile on his face
though there is no amount of joy
in his soul
as he watches the people
who watch him in return.
he goes about his skit as usual.
he waits for the laughs
but in return
he is met with silence.
he doesn't understand.
this is his job;
this has never failed before
"harmless" slapstick comedy for the whole family
there are sticks, alright
being thrown from the pit
along with jeers from the crowd.
he knows that he's funny.
he knows what he's doing.
so why is nobody else
playing along?
so what if he hasn't eaten
in what looks like weeks
it's for the craft, he assures himself
he'll fall easier if there isn't enough weight
to make it hurt.
the madhouse is booming
with the echoes of his audience's screams.
they all want something from him,
more,
but what else is there for him to give him
besides what he has been taught?
YOU ARE READING
the archives - a poetry portfolio
PuisiA light buzzing distracts you from whatever you're doing. There is an old, weathered monitor on a table next to you. You could have sworn that it had just *appeared* out of thin air. Out of curiosity, you stare at it for a moment. The screen flicke...
