Saturday, August 24, 2013

clowny skies

 “I’m not talking some march-of-dimes crap. I’m not talking taking insults from a certain south-seas woman. Don’t have the slightest degree of ratio-making working on my side. Golly, golly gosh and I’m ain’t running so free, see? Well, if you do, I don’t. And then we can detest some other piece of steak who thinks he’s the most magnificent creation in the whole sapphire-bled world. Well, I say harrumph to all that. I really don’t mind if I don’t and say I did. Not out catching cats in nap weather either. Nope. Not a nitwit such as I. Grubbed to a meal ticket’s last barnstorm through town. Notwithstanding. No. It is grapes or smash the window for me, as it should be, the way I figure. And figuring’s about all I do, or let myself do, or let on that I might be doing to others, and do unto myself, too, and all that, and all that as well. Guess some folks are just born to be dumb. Guess some grass is better left untended. Mine goes to weeds all the time. And I’m still considered lucky by some, to be spewing off what I do. But I want palm trees on the wall too. Just like any other tamer-of-pride sulking sack who winces his way into this place. It’s just too damn bright out sometimes. Darling. Darling. I just can’t beg enough pardons in this town. In this town, I’m a long-gone ripple gone out to sea. Partake of the sky with me. I just can’t dine on dust and sooty dreams anymore. The reflection’s all that’s left. My deep end’s gone shallow. And all my ties are running away from me. Slender efforts. Don’t try? Sure. Sure. It’s all a big now-don’t-you-cry sham. Nothing knocks true anymore. Just get me out of that damn sun already. It’s murder on my precious constitution. All whittled down to this hunkered thing that plops down here and stares through loveliness to get to the drab and the holy. I sweat through light to achieve a little darkness. Thinking about the stupid things people say after movies. These tattered strangers who play crooked violins. Where’d my wherewithal go? All that makes us different is what we choose to ignore. I’m not speaking of that salvation-army brand of courage that comes around with the sound of garbage trucks and funeral processions. What I’m going on about here is the places it takes to remove you from all that’s going on around you. Places you’ve got to get to before they get to you. Ran out of here. Walked into there. And the way the shadows fall on Montgomery Avenue just makes me ornery now. We are trained to be like this, sent in, whisked away, all smiles when necessary, punctually off kilter at times. Dressing-room sadness and a comb filled with blue hair. I need a pasty to cover my splintered heart. Lunge on ahead, buddy. I won’t be keeping up any longer. You see, these shoes are getting too small, and I don’t have any takers for my slapstick brand of living anymore. Get me a rifle and a pitcher of water. I’m going out to pasture. Call me Herodotus The Third or Barnum’s Finest. It doesn’t matter more than a draft from a cracked window. This one’s for the canvasmen, the ushers, and the sideshow workers. The rings have gone from three to none. The menageries, caravans, and hippodromes have been retired. All of my Ringlings have been Baileyed. My face paint’s gone; my hat’s gone out of style; and I'm all out of shrugs. Don’t you know tickertape doesn’t last? Nothing stays; and I’m dressed to go. The foghorn blows and blows, but not for me. But not for me. Would you listen to this if someone famous were saying it? Blah. Blam. Damn. I could use a shave.”