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The clown sits above the water awaiting the baptism,
hurling the truth—

guessing the exact weight of the big blonde
with the skinny man attached to her side  
like a vanishing twin, the errant throw
the last spasm of a hand destined  
to be be reabsorbed into the belly;

knocking a few inches off the little person
glaring at him defiantly, eating an elephant ear,
unaware that he has walked into the insult zone;

questioning the masculinity/femininity
of the man transitioning to woman,
the woman getting used to her new man beard;

all the victims to the secret knowledge of the clown
with the orange hair and red cap turned backwards,
black peeking from the white waterproof makeup—

that knows tiny arms can only throw downwards,
weight is heavy, and that men and women
who can’t control the aim of their emotions
means he stays dry, an extra dollar in his pocket.

A collusive chuckle sets the hook
for the barkers to initiate the $3 hustle,
corralling everything in their sight lines
for the wet revenge to drown the clown.

Only the unemotional hit the tea-plate target,
disengaging the lever that drops his hulking mass
into one hundred fifty gallons of tepid water,
the splash of money he carries from fair to fair.

He changes names in each new town:
Bozo in Montgomery, Patches in Columbia,
New Bozo in Decatur, where he can reside
in full unbridled insult without offense,  
that won’t run him out of town,
or the sway of the tallest, oldest tree,

until he settles into the Miami sun,
the Jack Jackels of Santa’s Enchanted Forest
where the old Cubans can freely laugh
and flick him the ashes of their cigars.

He struggles with arthritis, new cultural norms,
the old broken right hand when he tries
to lift himself above the water, the twinge
of neuropathy in his left foot, the revenge
of years of carnival food.

“Abuela, Abuela,” he chortles at the old
Spanish woman in black crossing his path,
her hijo, a minor league prospect,
hurling a perfect tea-pitch strike
that dunks him for the hundredth time
in five hours.  

As he pulls himself to his steel perch
he recalls how his great great grandfather
scared him with tales of the African Dip,
where as a savage above a boiling cauldron
he would be ladled to soup fifty times a day,
back when there were no bars, just rage
misdirected from the real target.

“Blackbird, blackbird”, he remembers
the white kids chanting as he settles
into his refuge, the iron lattice that
deflects stones, his eyes fixating on
a teen with a tube top and  baby bump.
“I’m probably paying child support for you, kid.”

Anywhere else, anything else
he would be boiling in hot water,
be doing days in the county jail,
months rattling the bars of a federal pen,
just for speaking the truth.

He knows of less than ten like him
as he watches a crowd of seniors
settling in on metal benches
in the dawning sunset
beyond his eyes horizon,

coming to sit and listen
to tonight’s show filled
with insults and baptisms,
knowing he would spew
the things they were
thinking in their heads.

They lied in school, he thought,
when his teachers said,
“you can’t make a living
being a *******.”
Reif Airen Sep 9
My only job is to make you happy
Even though sometimes I become sloppy
Seeing you smile is a gift for me
My heart flutters, I'm in full glee

Impersonating cartoons
Making animal balloons
Are all the things that I do
Starting from daylight, ending in full moon

Kids and kids at heart
I've been with them from the start
If they are sad, wanting to break apart
They come to me and all will restart

However, there are times that they can't see
What is behind, what is happening to me
All the sadness and pain that I wanted to erase
In my heart, they all started to raise

The circle of thoughts and emotions
All coming out in different motions
Wanting me to break up, leading me destruction
Setting me away to a sadder direction

Although it comes, I won't let it be
Distract me from my thoughts or even hurt me
For their smile, whenever I see
The sadness and pain vanishes from me

For them, I promise to continue
The things that I do
Performing acts in circus show
That all the hearts would shine and glow
Account Changed. Reposted
Johnny walker Aug 21
Done my share of pretending
at school so I would put on my mask and  became the the great pretender In order to avoid any
Became the classroom clown
quick witty just fooling around almost like an actor taking lots of different challenging
I was a great pretender and became very good at It so much so It would wind up the bullies to point of
But nothing they could do to hurt me for I had my on fan club to whom I made laugh so they protected
as time passed I grew strong learned how to get along able to talk my way out of any heated confrontations for I was truly the great
First we shake
Them up like
Then we hit
Them with the
Real good
Music and poetry
jerrey Aug 9
I’ll give my spirit for you
Because when you’re down
I’m forever your fool
Ask me if I will dance
And I’ll give you a second chance
I won’t stop until you’re pleased
With my whole body’s abstract grief
I won’t stop until I’m dead
And my feet are burning fiery red

I’ll never care if you fall short
Because you’re my king
And I am your court
If you told me to take
Another heart and make it break
I won’t stop until it shatters
And give it to you on a golden platter
I won’t stop until I’m dead
And make sure that you’re well fed

I’ll let you do what’s best for her
Because you’re my king
And I’m forever your jester
Tell me that you don’t know
I’ll tell you to please let me go
I won’t stop until you leave
Even when I’m too tired to grieve
I won’t stop until I’m dead
And have erased myself from your head

I’ll be here when you must be found
Because you’re my ringmaster
And I’m your best clown
Tell me that she’s what’s right
I’ll never try to put up a fight
I won’t stop until you’ll see
You can’t say you’re still here for me
I won’t stop until I’m dead
And my circus act is for now abed

Whenever and whatever you need me for
I hope you know that I am forever yours
A boy called me last night
ask me to be more than just his friend
my heart automatically said NO
because I still feel like your girl
and then I remember
how you claimed yourself SINGLE
eventhough on the day that we were still together.
clown is funny, clown is me.
OpenWorldView Jul 15
She came with her friend
wanting an introduction
but I played the clown.
She never asked.

What if
I wouldn't have been
the child I was?
There’s not always glory behind that mask
A thousand stories are shadowed with that mask
He may be correct or may not be in this busy conundrum of a life
Perhaps, he is wrong in the circus
Maybe one day, he’ll put off his mask and
Unfold his real performance
Spit out his catastrophes
Blurt out his bitter truths
And there’ll be no applause
Just an unwanted silence

Once Upon A Deadpool
Johnny walker Jun 16
Oh sometimes I feel let down have the sadness
of a clown because I
think I've let myself
For I've not made the most of my life and that Ive ******* up so many
times and feel
just like a
I must admit I'm sometime
feel ashamed and so many times I've let myself go
that I've lived my
life like a sad
For she longer around and I have face the facts that she wont be coming
back and put a smile
back on my
sad clown
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