FFM Day 7"You don't get it, kid. This job ain't about makin' people laugh." He exhaled cigar smoke with every word. The name on the label stuck to one of the suspenders holding up his hoop-waisted trousers read: 'Foboz'. He had the eyes of a disillusioned cultist and obviously hadn't shaved or showered in a while, his greasepaint smudgy and rough-looking for being plastered over several days' growth. "Do you know where we got the word 'circus'? Think about bullfights."Dingdong abandoned his piled-high plate of shrimp and ahem'd, the deliberate cough of a non-smoker, while flapping the end of his oversized purple tie at the offending fumes. "Sure, it's about making people laugh. That's what we do." He raised his voice to compete with tinny carnival music blaring from the wall-mounted speakers overhead. "I don't think you're allowed to smoke in here."Foboz exhaled another fat cloud. "No, you don't get it. The job of a clown is to distract, to obfuscate. We're the right hand that hides what the
AshesThink of the letters that we write our dead.- Dana GioiaMother, you are a bowl of soot. It's sad I wasn't there,but I did remember to weepand your yellow hair, that your eyeswere the strange, exhausted blue of certain leaves.You buried your husband young and went on,in a way, though I think the Mother who carried medied the same day - I barely recallher being in our house.There was a woman who did laundry, made the beds.Now she is dead, and in this bowl her ashesare all mixed up with yours.She used to call me 'daughter', but I was never hers..
If You WishI shall speak to you as cats do, in sulphurand green sliversfrom the back fence of night. I will callto you in comet-tails, in stars,not aloof but only distant; swing by youin a wild, wide ellipse, now and thenclose enough to catch. The cat abroadon the fence at night wears a hair shirt.I am not her. I am nothing like her -my heart is less ephemeral, my shadownot so blue. If you wish, you may smooththe frost from my spinewith your big, warm hand and I will arch.