Sideshow

I’ve spent my days flying above the rooftops-
        my nights curled in the branches 
                     of the sweet willow.
 I worried when my feet
	flirted too seriously with the ground below.
 My flight has been ruthless
                                and extravagant.
       And now I return to the sideshow,
                  the daily grind of the carny,
   greeted by a cardboard box
 and the remains of who I know I used to be.
        And I realize
    my underbelly has been scraped by the chimneys
                 and steeples.
      My chest is smeared with blood
                      and tainted with gold dust.
          The strange concoction 
			dances in the flashing lights,
                    painfully sealing my fleshy wounds.
      But by god, it’s beautiful 
and familiar.
I feel like I have emerged from a wagon crash.
 		The ionic column of my spine
   			seems cracked and 
			      beyond repair.
				Nothing
      left to do but strap on an iron corset
              and live through the pain.
    Bite my tongue in two 
         and listen to the carnival music-
                that intrusive squeezebox,
                   that ominous calliope.
  I have been playing russian roulette
		in the Tunnel of Love
           with six cartridges in the cylinder.
    And I’ve lost six times.
 The midway is a constant reminder
       that I am now alone.
   I have no partner.
               No Siamese twin.
    But this is life on the road.
You pack all your things,
      snip arteries that have sought another’s heart,
 and follow the garish banners to the next town,
       which always promises to be the last.






  


    

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