Clown
decided to get shot out of a cannon one day.
He was
bored and thought it would shake things up.
He
thought it would knock the fleas off him.
He really
didn't know what else to do.
He loaded
up the cannon (with too much gun powder, of course)
and pulled
the string that lit the wick and
just then
realized he hadn't set up anything to land on.
"Uh
oh," said the clown.
Then.
Boom.
And he
was zooming through the air
head over
heals
doing
somersaults
and got
lucky
by
landing
right in
the middle of a hotel swimming pool
where a
very elaborate
water
ballet was taking place.
The
audience thought he was part of the show
and
applauded like crazy.
Clown was
very relieved,
and
figured he had finally
satisfied
his curiosity
forever
regarding
the
human cannonball
experience,
which he
now realized
had been
troubling him
far more
deeply,
and for
much longer,
that he had
at first supposed.
Robot and
Clown met for coffee.
Robot
said it was tough––feeling he had no control––such limited choices––doing the
same things over and over––not even needing to take a cigarette break or a
dinner break or stop for the night. He said he might shut down now and then
because it seemed sensible to give the circuits and whirly-gigs a rest––but
when he booted back up it was like no time had passed at all––it was just on,
or off, for him––except that one time he seemed to have what is called a
dream––of––well––rocks and butterflies and people and galaxies. . .
Clown was
listening to all that and took his big red nose off and set it on the table and
then started trying to light his cigarette with, of course, his trick lighter
and on his first attempt a giant flame shot out and singed his bushy eyebrows
and left a faint reek of burning hair. And on the second attempt shot out water
and drenched the cigarette and got him right in the eye. So he set the lighter
down on the table and fished out another cigarette––a candy cigarette as it
turned out––and then looked in another pack and found an actual cigarette but
couldn't find his other lighter or any matches. In the meantime, the robot was
talking on and on and Clown was listening to every word of it and thought it
sounded both familiar and quite quite unimaginable. Clown paused a while when
Robot was done talking and said that's all very interesting but what about
laughs––what do you do for laughs, and then bonked the Robot on the head with a
big foam rubber baseball bat. Clown thought it was hilarious and fell out of
his chair.
searching
for his inner Barcelona
lounging
like a clown in the water on a float.
laughing
like a clown upside down at the parade.
singing
like a clown under a shower of sparks.
dancing
like a madman in the pouring down rain.
too upset
to function, broken like a machine,
wanting
to be more useful, but always lost in a dream.
A
sentimental clown in a no nonsense world of
money
time and payback. He wanted to sneeze
and wake
up someplace like, well, maybe Barcelona.
he'd heard
that was pretty nice.
This
clown is riding on the back of a giraffe,
and he
asks the giraffe how the zebra got his stripes.
And the
giraffe says,
What?
You’ll have to talk louder––my ears are up here
with my
head you know.
And the
clown asks him again.
And the
giraffe says,
How
should I know. Go ask the zebra.
What do I
look like, a set of encyclopedias?
So the
clown took out his flask of whiskey he had
hidden in
his shoe and took a big swig and fell off the giraffe––
but the
giraffe didn’t even feel it and kept walking,
and the
clown took another swig
and did
somersaults for half a mile until he got
to the
tavern at the edge of town.
He goes
up to the bar and says,
Gimme a
double.
And the
bartender pulls a lever and two stuffed boxing gloves
fly from
the wall and hit the clown
in each
of his eyes.
Ah. . .
That’s better. . .
says the
clown.
Scene at
a Parisian Cafe
Abstract
existentialist clowns, cubist clowns,
impressionistic
clowns,
smoking
Gitanes and Gauloises
and
drinking espresso––
half
their make-up on and half of it off.
Clowns
sitting at a little table at the sidewalk café
playing
chess.
Now and
then one the them flying into a rage
throwing
the whole thing over––
which
angers the one who was winning––
so he
blasts the angry one with water from the flower
in the
lapel of his clownishly
rainbow
striped suit coat.
Clown got
on the teeter
and his
other clown self got on the totter
and they
went up and down and
up and
down for years and years.
Who wins
the game of teeter totter?
Is it the
clown that gets off,
or the
clown who stays on?
Neither
of them know the answer
either.
beautiful
life with its
mystery
roses
becoming
aware
that's
all you are ever were
ever
could be
the
universe becoming aware of itself
starting
from fire
making
suns and planets
making
cells and green things that
grow up
crawl out of the muck stand up
and
say me
this
that
I
want
I think
it should
be this way
I think
it should be that way
how funny.
Peanut
crunch and motes of dust sailing like
crazed
rudderless spaceships in the spotlights.
Hush and
murmur of audience hum––heartbeats
and
sneezes, coughs and stammers and shuffles and
wheezes––when
is it going to begin––when will
the Las
Vegas Showgirl walk the tightrope with a
TV on her
head showing the live video feed of
the Las
Vegas Showgirl walking the tightrope
with a TV
on her head.
The
Ringmaster approaches:
"Ladies
and Gentlemen blah de dee blah blah
never
before yak yak yak in the history
gooble de
gookety blah blah blah. . ." While
the
Showgirl snuffs out her cigarette checks her
make-up and
doesn't, then does take a shot of tequila.
Space Clown
was a glow boy
hot to the
touch
shinier
than a bowling ball or
acetylene
blow torch.
He was
flying, he was trying, he was
like all of
us
perpetually
dying,
slowly or
quickly,
who would
know until the end and
by then
what would it matter.
But he was
something shiny,
laughing or
crying most of the time.
Not so
you’d know it,
behind his
painte
poker-like
face.
Mr. Space
Clown was a big cat dada-daddy.
Nothing
made sense to him except nonsense,
and that
sense was like copper pennies
falling
from the sky
disguising
themselves as rain
making the
people in the big fat city melancholy
and morose
but that’s
not the point at all
nor is it
in the least bit true. . .
it was
simply a meaningless verbosity tangent
the kind
Mr. Space Clown was so often prone to.
Mr. Dr. Space Clown.
Dr. Mr. Space Clown.
Doctor or Misterology or
Mister or Doctorology….
depended which side of the equator you were on.
Mr. Dr. Space Clown drove a fire engine red Ferrari––
mostly in the streets of
his Imagination.
He might have bought one for real but he wasn’t
sure he could afford
the insurance.
He was fond of driving and enjoyed,
for the most part,
how cars would, generally,
take him where he wanted to go––or,
if not that––
at least in the general direction he was
pointing them.
Usually.
He knew if he were a Cowboy Clown and
rode a horse
he would probably be arguing
with the horse
all the time, and then
having to deal with its
resentments.
This Clown walks into a bar, and the bartender says,
Say, we don’t get many Clowns in this bar.
And the Clown says,
You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.
This Clown walks into a bar, and the bartender says,
Whaddya Know?
And the Clown says, What’s that about my nose???
This Clown walks into a bar and the bartender says,
Say, we don’t get many clowns in this bar.
And the Clown says,
You’re right,
and at these prices you won’t get many more.
Dr. Mr. Space Clown’s nose was driving him crazy.
It was changing color at random.
And it wasn’t even sticking with the solid primary colors
of ROY G. BIV.
At times it was marbleized, or paisley, or. . .
well. . . you may imagine. . . day-glo. . .
whatever
whatever––
and it seemed to be connected to his unconscious––or––
well––not his conscious. . . nothing to do with
what was on his mind ever. . .
maybe it had to do with the atmosphere of the room.
Anyway, who knows. . .
well. . . his nose. . .
but. . .
who knew.
Clown goes downtown looking for adventure.
He parks his funny little golf cart in a no parking zone,
which gets towed away by the time he takes a seat in the nearest bar.
He asks the bartender for a Brandy Alexander and the
Bartender says, How about a shot of whiskey.
Clown says, Well, if you’re gonna make a Federal Case out of
it. . .
And the Bartender says do you want a drink or do you want to
get out of here.
Clown says, Why are you so mean?
The Bartender says he doesn’t know why he is so mean, and
starts crying immediately, and says doesn’t mean to be mean, but he can’t help
it.
Clown leans over the bar and pinches the Bartenders nose and
says,
Honk Honk,
And the Bartender says, All right, that does it, out you go…
Clown says, Aw come on, give me a double shot of whiskey, I
was only trying to cheer you up.
The Bartender reaches under the bar and grabs his Colt 45
Revolver and points it right between Clown’s eyes and pulls the trigger. . .
A big red flag with black letters shoots out of the barrel
and says BANG.
Clown falls to the floor, and the Bartender roars with
laughter, then throws a bucket of cold water on Clown.
Clown says, o.k., show’s over, how about a Brandy Alexander.
The Bartender says how about a shot of whiskey. . .
And Clown says, oh, for cryin’ out loud, and walks back to
the street where he’d parked his golf cart and sees it isn’t there.
How would you like to get show out of a cannon
and land in a pool of flames
How would you like to do it
three times a day.
Forget the pay.
It’s what Cannonball clown lived for.
Restless and deranged.
A super high caliber bullet
flying through the air
again and again
you’d think he would stop at some point
under the big top.
You’d think he would burn to the ground.
But he rises from the ashes.
He never quits taking chances.
He wants to steal a few more glances.
He wants to go down the road with a fever
and raise a little steam.
He really really wants to be, not you nightmare,
but your very favorite dream.
When teenage clowns fall in love
the girl’s father greets them at the door––
invites them inside to sit by the fire and
sip some brandy and smoke a cigar.
Of course, the clown’s cigar always explodes,
and the girl’s father roars with laughter,
then, says very seriously––
If you try anything funny with my daughter,
I’ll kill ya. . .
Lights up
D. walks out.
Says “Let’s talk about what is going on.”
At the word “on” All
Lights Go Out.
D. talks about space a while in the dark.
Asks for the lights to come back up eventually.
Does show.
Last words of the show are
“How funny.”
Lights go off.
Back on.
D. says Thank you. Takes a bow. Walks off stage.
clown
boys and indians
out on
the prairie the clowns were headed west,
and the
indians saw them, and attacked, and the clowns
started
honking their bicycle horns at them, running around
in circles,
arguing with each other, throwing pies in each others
faces,
until they forgot about the attacking indians because they were
so busy
fighting among themselves.
the
indians stopped attacking and just watched for a while,
and then
started laughing, and then started yelping and hollering,
and then
started imitating the clowns until the clowns and indians
were all
running around in circles together pulling each others ears
then
bonking each other on the head and throwing dirt clods and
on and on
until they all fell on the ground laughing unto exhaustion.
the
indians still secretly wanted to scalp the clowns to get the
orange
and green and blue hair the like of which they'd never seen,
but then,
as if reading their minds, a bunch of the clowns took off
their
wigs and handed them to the indians...since they did know the
indians
were fond of collecting hair now and then.
after a
night of hilarity and festivities, the clowns kept heading west
and the
indians gave them some food to take and wished them luck.
the next
bunch of white people that came over the hills were greeted by
indians
running around with their clown wigs on doing somersaults and
yelping
and hollering and doing tricks with their ponies, but some stupid
honky
shot at one of them, and the indians stopped with the hi-jinks,
put on the
war paint, and scalped the whole lot of them.
