I sprinted down the road, chasing the blond-haired clown. The one with the wrinkled shirt, the red nose, the big floppy feet. Circus in town, next to the vacant lot. Main Street and Vine. Hey man, stop. I'm talkin' to you. I said stop. I order you to stop. The blond-haired clown, drops his ice cream cone, looks back at me, stumbling. Who, me? Yeah, you. Me? You want me to stop? Yes. I take out of my briefcase a long, menacing taser. I show it to him, slowly and deliberately. Wanting him to cough, to start sweating. Wanting him to blow his nose with that ridiculous multi-colored handkerchief. And he does. Are you a cop or somepin? But I don't wait for him to finish. And I don't try to explain. What did I do to you, man? You're a clown, that's all. I can't stand clowns. I have an irrational fear of them. Well? Well. He panics, falling over backwards as I close in. You can get help for that, man. You don't have to hurt us clowns. He reaches into his clown bag and pulls out a large ridiculous looking pop gun. He aims and fires. There are no bullets, just a flag that says "Bang." You fired first buddy, now it's my turn. I smile and walk slowly, robotically, into his personal space. Just then, I hear a young woman screaming: no Bertrand, no. I'm Bertrand by the way. The screams fade. She runs away in horror. In a few seconds the scene will descend into dust and noise: Punch. Slam. Bounce. Biff. Zaaapppp! Why'd you tase me bro? I just wanted to. That's a lame reason. Yeah, I know. Well....uh....whadya gonna do now, 'cause now you just made me mad. He pulls off his wig. I'm just gonna wait. Wait for what? Wait for you to do somepin. Like you want me to fight back? Yeah, whatyda got, clown? But just then the young acrobatic woman with the braided dark hair came zooming by, running at us the way acrobats run. Out of breath, in that brazen leotard of hers. You two should not be fighting. Who is this boy - she says, half ignoring me. No matter. She says the words using a heavy accent possibly European, possibly fake. Clowny ("Kah-la-howny") - she purrs - you've got to help me. I owe Rico $500 Euros. Euros, I say. You mean dollars. What? Clowny ("kah-la-howny") are you listening? The clown pretends to be oblivious. No can do. Rico will hurt both of us - do you understand? Can't you see that I'm in the middle of beating up this punk? What punk ("poh-unk") ? Are you talking to me? Are you talkin' bout me? Now I really want to go ballistic on this clown. This stupid kid with the taser. Are you blind? That does it. I reach with my taser, but the acrobatic lady body blocks me and I fall hard.
Cancer
Mine, I know, started at a distance
five hundred and twenty light-years away
and fell as stardust into my sleeping mouth,
yesterday, at birth, or that time when I was ten
lying on my back looking up at the cluster
called the Beehive or by its other name
in the constellation Cancer,
the Crab, able to move its nebulae projections
backward and forward, side to side,
in the tumor Hippocrates describes as carcinoma,
from karkinos, the analogue, in order to show
what being cancer looks like.
Star, therefore, to start,
like waking on the best day of your life
to feel this living and immortal thing inside you.
You were in love, you were a saint,
you were going to walk the sunlight blessing water,
you were almost word for word forever.
The crown, the throne, the thorn —
now to see the smoke shining in the mirror,
the long half dark of dark down the hallway inside it.
Now to see what wasn't seen before:
the old loved landscape fading from the window,
the druid soul within the dying tree,
the depth of blue coloring the cornflower,
the birthday-ribbon river of a road,
and the young man who resembles you
opening a door in the half-built house
you helped your father build,
saying, in your voice, come forth. - Stanley Plumly