If This Be Invisible,
I
The kickdrum still may resound
Against a clown’s chorus
As this Punchinello steps off
The merry-go-round
Only to slump over
In a thorny bush
Where he will dream
Of the bull’s rush.
II
The stadium’s redzone
Is all plastered ears
With their minds ducted
To the same beer glass.
A fan will soon set down
His purple cowbell
And empty bag of peanuts
Before flouncing off
To the public urinal
Armed with an NFL-licensed spear
Lest he run into some Leprechaun,
Cowboy, Titan or Wanna-Be Buccaneer.
III
The clown stirs to the police’s baton
As it hammers for nail a bush’s thorn
Into his ass, down to the blistering point
Of becoming invisible. The clown scampers
Off into a New York alleyway
And, through a red-
velvet door, becomes invisible.
The chorus starts up.
Again, the chorus starts up.
Like the beginning of this poem
Through a kickdrum’s
Dark splinter of light.