Clowntime Is Never Over
A dead clown was singing under the Yum Yum tree, which made all the little
children happy as can be.
I moved into my father’s neck because his heart was empty. A pain, you see. His
eye socket filled with honey.
The dead clown told me she was the flag of an unknown country. She was smiling,
with little nips of waves biting the inlet’s nipples.
This is not the way I see it, but the way it is.
I gestured acceptingly but my hand was outside the purview of the window. It was
colder that way.
She found some small boards. She asked her mother for some nails. I must hurry,
she said, and lay my singular egg.
In passing, I suppose I can acknowledge the possibility that I too am passing. The
dead clown was not in the parade, but the parade existed anyway.
You see, it’s a great deal more fun if it’s tied up in a wonderful fear. A great and
sudden change. If you have gas in your family, that gas may be a disproportionate
resource even if you are not directly responsible.
Her inability to answer forced the dead clown to make a shelter of sticks, boughs
and moss. Perhaps her recent issue helped her move in.
In like manner I moved into my father’s leg because there were no dead clowns
there and I wanted the issue to leave me alone.
I did not wish to be fed. My hand was still cold. My father was cold.
The dead clown wrote to me concerning the absence of her parents. She formed the
letters painfully, describing the writing as she wrote, stroke by stroke, her pen putting on
the sticklimbs as if they were broken dolls she was required to put away in tiny pieces
each time she left them in the room of her thoughts and now she had to put them back
together reborn into this unknown day’s new piece of her mind, which was far from
peaceful, and fit on the body of that yesterday loosely, and rotated, like one of the
gardens wooden action figures, running or flying or floundering in place with the wind
rummaging through the poorly fitted destinations.
I did not wish to move outside the window. I did not wish to sing to anyone.
I was content to be living under the Yum Yum tree.
It was as happy as I could be.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.