Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Fourteen Summer 2007 |
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Real Clowns Mitchell Metz “Those aren’t real clowns, they’re human beings.” -- Henry, age 5, watching a parade abide in cooperative, balloon-intensive villages located between circus & tent, and catty-corner to helium. They relish hot dogs. Their HMOs provide full podiatric. Real clowns don’t pedal tiny trikes to get cheap laughs, never commute on elephants to parade jobs as moped cowboys. A clown in any parade is as fake as Flag Day, as face-paint. Real clowns are not Boy Scout leaders but, even after gunpowder/cannon, can navigate their bumbling way to the North Pole without a compass then shoot the magical shit w/ elves. Ruffles, nosegays genuinely become them; they do not poop. Real clowns really do sport six-inch smiles (thru their tears) for real reasons involving, all too often, the unspeakable infidelity of midgets. |
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About Mitchell Metz |