February 16, 2015


I've finally put
every trick I own
into an old tool box
I keep at home:
unanswered phones,
dreamless sleep,
everything I've used,
my self to keep.

Now I look full on 
into the funhouse mirror,
float all the way down
the Tunnel of Love,
stare at the fool
who swallows swords,
showing off
his breathing fire.

I want to speak only 
in the plainest of words,
never be pitied
by the screaming crowd
as just another
sad, old clown, 
hiding his smile
with a painted frown.