people walk
people walk with legs on backward.

In a month,
maybe two
the fair will come.

With it brings peanut language,
leaping, diving elephants
and yards of colorful tent

made to fit tongues –
just the talk of it,
of the lady wearing red.

There will be
clouds made of stitch,
the stitch in sides.

Barracks of fun!
what a beautiful ride,
slipped and fit for a gun.

Candy machines in whirl
hands of children, shoving;
made to listen by mom.

A mother holding
her baby in lap
and laughing, laughing

like the face
of that child, though skeletal,
was most beautiful.

balloons float
balloons float from children’s arms

and rise in black
through the clouds
stitch releasing a spray of red.

There are cries
there are cries
like the back of his hand;

made of bones
made of clay
we walk on our hands.

The mothers cry
the mothers fly
to the back of his hand

“O daddy, O daddy!
what’s become of this? a palm
made of lead sunk into your head!”

Bodies covered in flies
on the back of his hand.
We all die. We all die:

our mouths filled with sand
and fingers on our jaw
making that solid noise

we heard somewhere before.
Perhaps a baby cry,
a mother’s sadist lullaby.

jaws open
jaws open and swallow your laughter.

In a month,
maybe two
the fair will come again.


In honor of such a black subject, here are some visuals:


at the fair

clowns at the fair

the fair


the holocaust