The Circus is Dead
With youthful eyes I was blessed
with the gift of naivete,
and every place I ventured I witnessed the air
grow dense with colors and music.
The crowds standing in awe
of the masterpiece that bloomed before them;
moss-masked clowns that grew hundreds of feet tall
were rooted and motionless
while the flying flutes made eyes flood like rivers.
Foxes danced the tightropes
while apes displayed their aerial stunts.
Nothing could be tamed
and everything was alive.
But then the cold touch of man,
after generations of peaceful existence,
bled out the great mother of nature
and planted its own weeds that strangled
the beauty of life.
Bright colors were replaced with grim greys
and the music was polluted by the noises of the city.
Everything that flew free now fled the cages that chased them,
and now I see everything as the ruins of the circus
that made me smile.
And I stand stoic in a burned down field
with no air in my lungs
and no soul in my body.
The Man Holding Green
The lawyer floats down the street
holding in his briefcase legal documents that
suggest false innocence
and they burden him with anxiety.
Sweat glands leak his
70 proof scotch that served
as his creamer in his coffee.
Standing in front of the man holding green
in the courtroom and hesitantly shielding him,
the lawyer continues to burn in self-loathing
that is fueled by shame and regret.
But he knows the criminal standing in his shadow
holds a gun to his back;
bills and mortgage papers serving as bullets.
The sentence ends with the words “not guilty”
and the feeling of a cold pistol fades away.
The lawyer returns to his home
ashamed of his relief.
When I Return to Spain
It was a lively night in Madrid
when I met the mother of love
in a smoky dive bar
We split a bottle of fine white wine
that tasted like the sweetness of her breath.
And suddenly the months faded
We dirtied her newly white sheets
as lovers often do.
And each night I shared a lifetime
But I was a demon
repelled by the blue cross.
And although my love remained
my body escaped westward.
I still write letters nightly
reassuring her of my love;
saying I hope our daughter
But the letters turn into ashes
at the bottom of my gray chimney;
they burn in a cool blue fire