I would stand at the door
ushering in the mob
a warm amber glow that
radiated a brackish royalty
spilling over the edges to decorate
my skillful fingers
a moment to lick the sacrament
the blood of christ
back of the throat to bless
the ringmaster

they stumble and sachet
my clientèle, my audience
arm in arm, some tucked under the
majesty of ignorance looking for
the lei dipped in wisdom and
attenuation laced together
with the ties that bind

sit at the edge of dreams, I mumble
pouring a ferment, a simmering
chimera galloping along the fine mahogany
whose leavening footprints ghostly
trail vanishes like the sidle of my life
and the patrons of yesteryear pop
like prism bubbles in their seats
leaving only a greasy remembrance

but the show must go on
so I rap the blade and raise the dead
battalions of specters, spirits
frozen with faces stretched like
some bizarre pairing of dali and basquiat
and they all look like resentments

the moonlight burns
a scar across brass and
copper fittings unsettling the dust
and I can only see through
the paper towel tube
the world as it has become
my three ring circus cut
down to one

I brace myself as I head toward
what appears to be a door
to a distant place
and hold open the wind
that kisses me sadly as I
pin back the flap to the main
tent, swaying back and forth
like seaweed I murmur my thanks
to the imaginary
and make dust angels on the floor
breathing in the emerald dust
of envy at how one can sleep
without passing out

for even as I am carried by
the carnies of my mind to be laid
to rest, I can hear the demons
in their cages
screaming to be released

but not tonight
not tonight