living as an akward clown...

I am so inclined to laugh at…nothing and everything, for everything is a parade of amusement—a modern circus of sorts. There was a little man who lived in a box, he thought it was the world, until the top came off, and he did not even notice. Instead he live a shameless shriveled miser of an all but emaciated world, a fabricated microcosm of the most delightful irony. And I laughed. There was a man who walked on pavement stones to a home that was not his, so he tried again, and again, and again. And I laughed. There was girl who was hanging damp clothes on a white wire in the back yard. The wind and sun dried them, she took them down and put more up. And I laughed. There was a picture that hung on the wall. It held the sun, the stars, the moon,, a book, a pen, a mouse, a window, an empty chair, an open door, a candle, a shadow, a sparrow, a willow tree, rain, a glass half full, two black eyes, a subtle smile, an oval face, a quill, an ink well, and a desk. And I laughed, but I cried too.

I was walking, then I stopped, bent down, and knelt on the sidewalk to…

1. tie my shoe

2. pray to God

3. pick up a penny facing heads up

4. propose to a love I have yet to meet

5. crawl

6. play with a child

7. pick my self up

I sat as the shore line crept up to my toes with the rising moon. It was by the rocks where the ghost crabs would hide in the day, wedged deep between the cracks of an open sore. I looked down. The moon was only half full this time—it was still bright though. I could see the shadowy outline of my head and shoulders against the dancing light like natures quiet cameo. I threw myself in.

I sat in a mangrove tree two or three feet above the water although it felt like I was swimming. You could drink the water from the air, no matter where I moved the water clung to my clothing and skin—wanting like me to escape. I moved slowly. I saw such beauty. The sun on the leaves. Small crabs perched on mangrove roots. Iguanas green and blue like the leaves, sleeping absorbing the sun. Little fish harbored by the forest of roots and broken branches. It kept them safe from the ocean. They would have to leave some day or get caught and die in the roots. It smelt of decaying sea creatures and iguana shit, but I liked to sit there sometimes. I hoped to see a manatee. One time I did.

I sat in a room lighted by two desk lamps. Fingers sick with fever, tired, sore, but they still danced across the keys. Singing a sad song, of a young man who did not know himself, but he laughed at everything. He wasted too much. I still laugh.