shoot out the stars

In the carnival of dreams

we are all small, H with his box

of 64 Crayola Crayons, Amba

painting faces, the late great

King Kong alive again and towering

over tents that billow in the wind,

the walkers and gawkers and holy

rollers strolling the Midway, half-

drunk on aromas and dizzying

colors and screams of children

from whirlywheels and gut-

wrenchers and who wants to

see the baby Herfords and pet

the pygmy goats and who will

hold your hand in the funhouse

as you turn the corner and gaze

into the wavy mirror of the past

where the future was always now

and the clowns and freaks and

sideshow barkers with empty

eyes, covered in tattoos, calling

us to come and win a prize were

who we would become, and

the carnival, the carousel,

the Ferris wheel only illusions,

and no need to shoot out the stars—

they flamed out eons ago.

 

--M deO

Done