Claude at the Circus

The Life Enhancing Circus

of Death Defying Acts 

Claude’s inner child couldn’t sit still, 

instead rocking back and forth 

in his seat as colored lights

swooped down from overhead

piercing his eyes, 

searchlights of such

blindingly sensory color

they could 

distract the mob

from other distractions. 

Coerced into joining

a chorus of boos 

emanating from the stands 

as two rambunctious clowns 

took turns clubbing 

each other over the head 

with a rubber hammer,

the rabble in the round

grew gladiatorial. 

Claude’s stomach seized

as he'd learned

long ago to be wary of

the contagious emotions

of a crowd.

The question most taunting

him at this moment

was whether the pretty aerialist 

clinging to the metal ring 

spinning in the air

was about to fall to her death 

and horrify the children 

already ill at ease 

despite their chanting 

in inflammatory unison: 

Higher! Higher! Faster faster!

Tomorrow’s newspaper was

sure to trumpet the incident

as one in a million that

she would go down like that

as hundreds of cell cameras 

captured the terrifying thud 

or splat or bounce the body

would inevitably make, 

splayed on the ground

legs akimbo

while traumatized onlookers 

covered their crying children’s eyes,

hurriedly ushering them away…

but alas, the pretty aerialist

only managed to wobble

nimbly on the giant ring 

never losing her balance 

nor her expert smile.

Next up: the trained dog act,

as seven rust-red wiener hounds

yapping in unison 

were put through their paces

by a blonde dominatrix in tights,

her bosom enhanced by 

a wreath of pink feathers

molting in the harsh lights 

as she dolled out treats

to her deprived 

four-legged captives 

all while forcing them to perform 

adroit tricks for 

a smattering of applause.

Claude felt one of them.

In fact, as he watched 

he was being sawed 

fairly in half;

one an adult and the other a child

dying to compare notes

on the spectacle at hand…

the gaudy sparkling outfits 

of the females in stripper drag 

with their fifties femininity, 

saucers spinning on sticks,

balloon animals twisted up in knots,

pastel bouffants of cotton candy,

the queasy knife throwing act,

and the women, the women

painted and squeezed into tights

waving their out-stretched arms

embellished by girlish upturned palms.

The men, buffoonish, 

stripped to the waist

like human comic strips

with tatted muscles, 

gyrated their hips

as if the natural climax 

of any dance move

was to end in a pelvic thrust.

Not until 

the aging escape artist 

submerged himself 

in a tank of womb-warm water 

only to unlock his handcuffs 

in the nick of time

just before drowning 

(why couldn’t this be the night?),

did the pint-sized ring master ask

us all to hold our breath

along with the death defying

strong man, and to raise our hands 

when we ran out of air,

did it become clear to Claude 

that at any moment 

something harrowing 

might happen 

to us all.

The little boy right next to him

abruptly brayed like a donkey

while his brother tossed 

a popcorn kernel into the air

catching it in his gaping mouth.

Claude remembered the Bible 

exhorting on becoming a man

as the "putting away of childish things" 

leaving him feeling

he’d just attended no more than

a spoiled child’s birthday party

(his own)

and like the escape artist

had emerged better for having

survived one of life's greatest challenges:

simply to live another day.

Exiting the Big Top tent

of living memorabilia,

Claude, saddened he was no longer

young, having seen the clowns

and not found them funny,

inhaled and gasped

like a man at the last moment

saved from drowning,

as his body began to shiver 

emerging into the bitter 

night’s cold air

and wouldn’t you know,

without a cab in sight.

1/10/2022

ReSOULutions

If we fully realize

it is fallacious to insist

or suppose that we leave off 

where others begin, 

then there is no

part of they that is not

us as well, and nothing 

we own truly ours.

Therefore, we might make

the following resolutions:

To defend our love of life.

To be more patient with others.

To overlook faults 

though never our own.

To be strong and resilient

without becoming

remote or unfeeling.

To embrace the silent

nothingness waiting beneath

the surface of everything

and not run from it

or fill it with noise.

To be more present 

in small moments.

To be more loving,

less judgmental.

To eat more thoughtfully.

To actively participate

in our well-being.

To manifest the good

if we should find it

missing in the world.

To make our own joy.

To smile more frequently

and first thing on waking.

To take responsibility

for all our actions.

To realize that disappointment

is the unfair product

of our own expectations.

To take better care of our vessel.

To use ourselves for good. 

To take care with our appearance

so that it reflects our ideals.

To have the courage 

of our convictions 

and to represent them 

wherever we find ourselves.

And finally…

to pray and not say amen

so that our lives

become one long

prayer.

1/To go forth/ 2022

 

The Morning After

the Miracle

The morning after the miracle 

I sat in unspoken silence.

The sky outside my window

bared a bruise,

sole survivor

of a beatific harrow.

Steam from a rooftop pipe 

released a frenzied genie

of diaphanous steam

setting it free 

to evaporate.

Above, 

a crowd of clouds like

abandoned parade balloons

hovered; somber onlookers

to what had

transpired in the night.

Pulling my attention back 

to the room,

I shut up like a telescope,

mourning the cessation

of months of hymns;

now no more than

faded headlines

heralding yesterday’s 

life changing news.

I sat dumbfounded,

tranquil as an animal,

naked, weary, alone,

leary of those thoughts

that would intrude

upon this holy purity,

thoughts that think

themselves 

regardless

of rhyme or reason. 

My wish, 

(the prayer

of a child 

who doesn’t

know how

to pray)

was simply

to hold onto

this emptiness

in my hands

without 

need to

fill them with

a greater

purpose.

If not a wish,

a prayer,

if not a prayer,

a psalm,

if not a psalm,

a poem,

if not a poem, 

a spell,

if not a spell,

a dream,

if not a dream,

a work of art.

It was enough

to be present,

emptied of expectation,

gazing at

the arrival of 

this glorious

newborn day.

12/26/21

 

Omichronica

Omicron ~ the fifteenth letter of the Greek alphabet

transliterated as 'o', Astronomy, the fifteenth star

in a constellation. Noun: "Omicron Piscium"

i

When I was in my twenties,

hopelessly impressionable,

to be worth your salt

required a breakdown.

Fitzgerald had one.

So did Zelda.

They called it cracking up.

Plath was famous for hers.

Many artists courted theirs.

The bottom line being

if you hadn’t tested

the limits of your urges

and emotions

how serious could 

you be taken? 

A breakdown brought

you down to earth

hard and fast and messy; 

proof of having scaled 

the heights,

loving too hard,

letting sex go awry,

relentless self-observation,

only then to have

one’s sensitivities

come surprisingly to

more sober conclusions.

One knew after 

several suicide attempts

(the benefit of which

cracked you open

like an archetypal,

if non-marble egg), 

countless confessionary 

conversations with tentative

listeners, that there are

in fact no prerequisites

for living a happy life,

that nothing outside

oneself is at all required,

that wealth’s more likely

to create anxiety than joy,

that clinging onto things

cripples the constitution,

that life itself unfurls

like a virus mutating

by way of some divine order 

merely in hopes of surviving

it’s own voraciousness.

I had to ask myself:

How had I kept

my capacity for joy

after so much

alteration?

ii

Yesterday I met 

a joyless man

who knew himself well,

a well-thought out man

who wore a laundry list

of neuroses, each with

a very definitive title.

Right up front

in a matter of minutes

I was informed of his

sex addiction, clinical

depression, OCD,

bipolar disorder, and

very personal journey

of self discovery

(or was it recovery?).

I was taken aback, 

if not dumbfounded 

by the over-sharing 

of such vivid self-prognosis.

In that space and time

“knowing thyself” 

seemed more addiction 

than edict.

I suddenly knew that

the aspect of seeing oneself

in the mirror of another

always takes us aback. 

And yet,

there was a significant

difference between myself

and this imposing reflection.

The man before me

radiated not the slightest

joy de vivre.

His experiences

had seemingly drained him

of any trace or

intimation of

sweetness and light.

It was as though 

he’d lost his sense

of taste and smell

for what was 

before his very

nose and eyes.

He was for all

intents and purposes

all in his head.

It made me think…

but with my heart

if that’s possible,

can we ever see

ourselves rightly?

Or regard ourselves

as subjects if we are

unable to watch ourselves

watching without judging

(hardly a substitute for insight)

in so harsh a light.

All I know is that

there is a rapturous sorrow

that has filled my emptiness

as easily as a child fills in

the picture of an ocean

with a cerulean crayon;

the color forever

taking me

to itself.

If prayer is the purest way

the heart makes itself heard,

then creativity is a clarion fountain

inviting others to drink

whereby we may

water the world.

One needn’t travel anywhere

in order to restore relish

for what we feel we’ve lost.

Returning anywhere is done 

solely within the edges 

of our soul

(which is borderless). 

That the sight of falling snow

can return me to my youth;

its scent, a panacea,

its sound, the voice of the moon.

Its feel, a gorgeous desolation.

If what makes something holy

rests with the beholder,

then I will behold 

everything with an open heart

as we all now

find ourselves in

this state of

Omichronica. 

12/22/21

 

 

Animal Mind

“Every phenomenon on earth is symbolic.  

 And each symbol is an open gate, through 

which the soul can enter the inner part of 

the world, where you and I and day and night 

are all one."

~Hermann Hesse

                

Hiding in plain sight,

two hares in a winter field 

disguised as snow

draw predators

to read the

fine prints

of their

lives.

By stopping

in their tracks,

they tempt

fate.

If at night we bind 

herbs to our feet

in an act of alchemy 

encouraging the release

of our fears 

because we are

predisposed

to petrification, then

why not

hibernate in this

same drift to wait

out the storm, 

improbably warm 

beneath a cold

blanket above.

Our fur, 

beauty itself,

acts as

clothing.

Sleep is a time machine

and at night some

of us  

are map makers, 

by day, cartographers

navigating our own

insular dimensions,

ingesting everything 

seen, smelt, and heard

 wherever we go;

another reason for

hiding in snow.

As silence is purity,

our quiet has purpose,

dreaming adventures 

inside the forests 

of ourselves.

These dreams 

never last, 

so we pause

to sniff the air

one last time

before heading 

North.

12/14/21