| |
He’s the
commandant of freakdom,
his back so arched it all but rips
brass buttons off his vest. His boot soles
are soiled with the stomped human grime
of fear and doubt. Light dances
in the sheen of his high-topped hat
like the sequins on a gown. Each crack
of his whip drives the stars of his show
closer to the edge of reason. He struts
under the big top, smug in his expertise,
the consummate public relations director
of death. With but the timbre and cadence
of his voice, blessed with the charisma
of a rich evangelist, he works the crowd
to fever pitch and holds it, through the last,
death-defying act, in the palm of his hand.
|
next
|
_jpg1.jpg){kind=small}
