Bobo-the-Magic-Clown

existence is a cancer, here I’m in the terminus, but our sun is rising and the sky weeps for Me. the world can wait. clouds like holes in a face. leaking through, a blood spectrum. still those blue eyes peer at Me, apologizing for fallen grace, knowing these lesions will mend, the pain will pass. the seconds are slipping, strained between My fingers, dust of an arsonist’s soul. every moment a different shape, a different wound, convalescence. but nothing is forever.

 Already, a sweat broke across my forehead and dampened my underarms. The furnace that lingered on the secret third floor scalded me beneath the jacket I’d worn. I slipped through its arms, draped it over the back of my awkward chair, and sat. No time to ponder; I immediately lunged at the keyboard and battled back an exhilaration like I hadn’t known for years. Who knew that the answer would be so simple, so accessible? God, how I loved my job. It took only an hour to jot up a skeletal outline, an hour more to strew flesh about its bones, and yet another to crank out the first chapter. All the while, I glanced at the script smear

 Home. It had never looked so inviting. A Plexiglas playground of three-point-five thousand square feet, my very own terrarium. It was a cage, but it was familiar. It was home. Ionic columns supported an ornate grey balcony suspended just before the mahogany double doors at the doorstep. From the foundation up, it was built from slabs of granite and grey stone tinged with silver, sealed with an ashen mortar whose few impurities I had come to admire as part of its very perfection. On either side of the front doors, plate-glass windows quartered by metal bars adorned the walls. Factor in the two stories, five bedrooms (only one of which was occ

        I turned sharply, jogged briskly down the steps of cement, landed softly on ocean-churned sand. My feet sank lightly into the ground, and a cool wind whipped at my clothes. The azure unfolded above me, before me, swallowing the horizons. All I knew beyond this sliver of earth was awash with cobalt blue. Invigorating.        Hypnotized by the drag of the tide, no longer of my own volition, I wandered to the shore, abandoning my shoes just out of the water’s reach. Cold and shocking, the ocean crawled over my bare feet and brushed my ankles, dampening the cuffs of my jeans. The receding tide pulled the sand from beneath me, buryi

 and I bet that kind of man would show no fear and show no mercy, the kind of man that feeds on strength and dominates weakness, the kind of man that every man aspires to be, an untraditional hero of traditional colors to swoop down on collapsing airs, dragging up from the ground our atmosphere and allowing those ordinary, wishing men to breathe again. No, such blatancy is unnatural and impossible, the kind of megalomaniacal dreamscape that alienates subjects and disassociates one from reality and tangibility. I spit on it. Our Superman is no longer the flamboyant banner of salvation, with his plastic haircut and rubber-molded physique. Today