Who Burned Down The Circus?

A minstrel in the traveling Circus Futurae

visits the caravan’s Madame Fortuna one night.

With her cards, she tells of his terrible fate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chain, Missouri

6 P.M.

The first shiftings of Day to Night,

All gaps are filled, no more shadows or light.

The Sun has made its escape,

The Earth still radiates heat.

The card reading sifts about my recent memory:

“The Key will unlock not the door but the window,

allowing one who thinks

to escape, unnoticed

into the realm of ones who feel.”

I have been trying to find a silver lining

in all these proclamations of fate.

“Beware The Spark awaiting thy Future Heart.”

The only one I can find

is the hope that

my future heart

will have been well loved

and was able to love in return.

Should I trust her?

This soothsaying seer?

Her insistence that my tremors will affect the cards differently

than the hundreds, thousands

who have touched them before me?

She says my doubt does not matter,

this oracle dreaming my dreams.

There was something simple about her logic

that made it easier to breathe.

Perhaps it was the anxiety that she was right.

A missing panic not unlike spite;

Like a shock of hot oil to the forearm,

or a glancing down briefly at one’s hand

to find it has become that of an old man’s.

Do you ever break deliciously into a run,

the fastest of which you are capable?

You cannot say why you started,

after you’ve stopped,

but for the sake of your screaming heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The brain and the spine must twist

left and right

to remain flexible and light,

the acrobats would say.

One must appeal to both creation and destruction;

simplicity and irrational delight.

In the show I fulfilled my duties

as Minstrel;

I sought to sing them of

past, present, and future;

made less distressing by rhyme;

made less god-fearing through riddle.

At the circus, the audience is presented with LIFE,

not as they know it or can even imagine.

At the circus, the cast is presented with DEATH,

for it is a small death every night

to see such a grand curtain

fall.

The applause is a triumph solely my own.

Are they really all in love with me?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The front man, the M.C.

is never the true focus.

For that he must play a part in the show,

not merely host it.

No, the ringmaster who plays

at pulling the strings

cannot bend freely,

twist, dance or sing,

like his puppets can.

He returns to his dressing room (tin abode),

washes his makeup away

in the mirror,

while puffing on cigar,

and realizes no talent at all,

except thievery

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Trying to find her, my Madame Fortuna,

through the wax prisms,

bird shrieks,

and wilting flowers

was not easy;

Her trailer always the farthest removed from the show.

It was said she left the grounds

the night before the incident,

Following the morning of my divining.

Her movement was noticed, commented upon briefly

by wondering contortionists, fire-eaters, and human cannonballs alike;

who had never seen the Madame Fortuna leave her trailer;

who didn’t know she could walk,

let alone run.

But the curious reports spread

all the next fateless day,

“the Oracle has fled,

with flames around her head,

running the other way.”

At this, the cast hypothesized

drank and laughed,

her existence already well in the past,

myself excluded,

for I heard this thunder

As a call for lightning.

It was then the idea manifested itself

the smell of gas filled my ears.

I saw I could write present, past,

and future with my own tears.