Something tells me there is a clown hiding underneath this table giggling whenever my legs bop and boop up and down up and down dancing to all the uptones in my earholes. I look up to the ceiling and see its reflection through the mahogany desk and I jump the ceiling stealing all of its dollars from payday. The clown leaps up and down all money-style hollering back and forth with the proverbial echo. He hits at my knees with a ballpoint and peen hammer but I’m too quick for you mister man-son. Whose father are you, little boy ball-playing in a park with two hands on the Ferris wheel and one in the sandbox, dragging and pulling every which way? Let’s funnel cake! Let’s bumper cars! Let’s rollercoaster up and down screaming and laughing and crying and holding one another on the couch talking about lost love and lost friends. Hey, clown, you think you’re something special? Just cuz you got that facepaint like no one else don’t mean you anything unique; like no little child’s never cried in your presents before soaking your soggy socks in smelly mucus and salty tears. Psh.
Be my guest. Make the first move. I’ll challenge you to a duel and duel you to the death with rapiers and raptors running faster than Cheetahs in a glass casket made for the Prince of Space. Go for it. I dare you to dart back and forth between lead-based paintballs like the twisted gauntlet you were a part of before you backed out in fear of reformation and reprimanding, by dear Lord in Heaven are you still here did you leave where did you go oh well I guess I’ll keep on. Please, make my day through throwing oranges into the blades of a ceiling fan in the kitchen near the patio blocking out the sun’s heavy rays with blankets of silk and cotton, and let the juice soak our skin making a sticky mess on everything we touch on our home and body.
Mister Clownin’ Aroun’ Thinkin’ Yer Kenny Quick Toes Laughin’ At Professa’ Banana’s Pissin’ Hisself In The Bathroom On The Side Of A Gas Station In The Middle’a’whereva’. Don’t touch me or you’s finga’s gon get kicked off sky high into outta’ this here Earth. Just cuz you’s got immunity with the President don’t make none of this right. Yer connects are strong and some such but you ain’t got the power of the Spirit Body Mind Soul Fingers and Nose. I got that on ma side end I’ll and you before you get the chance to cut my fingernails off or rip my eyelashes out. Be careful what ya’ wish fer. Don’t bit off morethan yucan’chew.
Straight sinkin down into dark noonenowhere smellin like taco grease and damned if I’ve been waiting long enough for the crystals to fall from my eyes cutting out the defects and making me less defective so detective Yum-Yum Glibletts can begin his investigation of the suspected murder of
But back to you, sworn enemy of the underworld and fighter of all that is “Right” and “Good” like you’re fooling me’r something. The clown, this Gotdamned Clown, keeps tickling my friends making them vomit up all the happiness we prepared over the gas stove drinking whatever we could find under the sink next to the olive oil and dishwasher fluid. But the clown knew. There is no dishwasher. There is no olive oil. Only gasoline and donut holes and we both know donut holes don’t smell like anything you’d wanna drink. The clown tries to bash my foot on the cement and crack my heel sending pain allllllllllllllll the way up to my brain sending panic back down. The nerves scream at each other back and forth. Do Something Sue Domething they carry down the corridors of my red and blues. Red has blood blue does not but where’d it all go? Peeking at us through the garbage disposal—I should have ran it faster than a six minute mile on a May day to get the Presidential Patch for the fifth year in a row (so what my test scores are low, momomomom and dadadadad, lookee this pretty blue patch that says I can run fast and stretch far and sit up many times and push the ground away from myself as often as possible)—he snickerdoodled all the darry dandy day, waiting for the parachutes to open and the brakes to screech. We didn’t let’im, though. Away from us, devildog! Away from us, pisscat! Nothing loves you more than misery.
The twinkle of a daddy’s eye’s iris’s smile. Jesus’s supercape doesn’t fit the requirements of good grammar but if we leave well enough alone and hit the slopes before the snow melts I can show you what I do best: gliding slow smooth on the reflective whiteness. Everything white Tee minus blue, denim pants getting soaked when you fall and we laugh. Let’s race. First one to the bottom gets it. Gets what? You’ll know if you win. Get it? And at the bottom we’ll dig ourselves out of an igloo made of icey creams. Likes banilla? Likes Chalklit? Loves blumberspberry, I suppose. Get that and you’ll be set for life.
And the peen point pen flies across the room. I’m sorry I egged you on brother but is pen throwing what we’ve become? I jump and miscalculate and the peen point still hits me and my skin makes my mouth scream. Mother: WHAT HAPPENED BROTHER: HE WAS STARTING IT AND I’M SORRY I NEVER MEANT TO MOTHER: HURT HIM BROTHER: YES! It’s okay, brother. Come out to us and we’ll still love you. Just gotsto love yourself and love what you are biologically attracted to. So-the-fuck-what? Juss cuz Jesis don’t like what you do don’t make it wrong. I’ll be here dropping out and in and out burning my arms and wrists always ready with open-ended-arms-out to cloak you in love and acceptance.
Feels real good, donit? No, clown. Get down from that tree. What do you think you are or doing? Spying and peeping and peeking? You just wait. I’ll be oldenough for sunofagun soonandstuff and then you’ll get it twice in the chest two in the eyes. Your soul will escape your eyes and heart will shoot blood out the chest until the flap of skin that was your skin touches itself on both sides. What then? I’ll leave that for the wolves to decide.
This is fun, isn’t it?
Still with me?
Still get it?
These women in tight pants loving up the Bible and their dark dancing basements with an empty tub of jungle juice that fueled the juices and wet now run and rub on a tree or the barky wood. He looks like a Beatle I swear to God like John or maybe Ringo? I always likened myself to John. Well you ain’t, he is, says mister Beatle lover to the both of us wishing there was more alcohol nectar to slurp. The line to the bathroom’s filled with fucking. All day and night the sole light swings back and forth like a marble dangling at the end of a string waiting for little Tommy Two Thumbs: Pro Shooter of the Mideast to try and get it but fail. Just to make him cry. Isn’t that sick? Sick? Sick like the flu and slick like Travolta’s greasy hair making that blonde beauty loosen up and enjoy life. Take it to heart, kids. Take on Travolta’s personality and Buscemi’s confidence in his funny-lookin’ness.
Look, clown. I know you mean well and only want to help, but you are one sick something else and I’d have to disagree. So drop your act and drop your axe and help rebuild what you’ve tornorcut down after all these years terrorizing the loved ones in our country lay-land sleeptown. We just want some good rest. Could you at least give us that?