Clowns in the Prose
Languid words laying flat on the parchment,
not moving but telling a story,
data sent out in cold coffins
strapped in with black and blacker manacles
with dead roses still clinging to the surface,
the facts enshrined and admired
but yet not moving on their own,
gasping for breath for the sake of prose
and stuck in a quagmire of sand
as poet clowns are called to the rescue with their
gargantuan shoes and whimsical rhetoric.
“Tickle tickle, words stuck in the mouth of data.
Twist thy selves around the polka-dot pole.
Add salt and pepper to the tasteless stew.
Laugh until the rivers run out of themselves.
Ride with the caravans of joy come forth.
Ride with the Saints of humor and wit.
Jump on the rainbows and slide down the sides.”
Stick out your chests you poets of the now,
you clowns that keep the prose afloat,
you saviors of the literary engines
that grind away with their rusty pistons
and establish themselves as emissaries of fact.
Laugh away the misery of the truth so stringent
and the proper structure that
holds the story together,
the sequential refuse piled
on top of more refuse
until the story begs for the poets
to come and lighten up the sadness.
Hail to the poets and the crazy way
they tell the story.
Hail to the clowns who invade the truth,
re-arrange it to their liking,
and color it with red and white polka-dots.
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