Russian Roulette

The harlequin stops
to laugh at me. I've pissed in his coffee,
delinquint his comedic timing, his heart betrays
the grin with seltzer cubes of anger, from

schizophrenic whiskey bottles daring to
line up for boot camp in his trailer fashioned
with taffeta fabrics, stained tin foil lids, outdoor
autumn carpeting, wall to door, aluminum shingles,
electrical eels furry with dust, pillows without
shams, and tape holding a
mirror to the bedroom paneling with one staple shaking;

His life could never be replayed, or fast
forwarded. Hazards squeal.
Earaches cripple.
The house is only there to hold the body.

Braeburn's have given up their skin
to bleed at once
into Dixie cups like the
ones at the young grassy camps with the
little children who laugh for no reason other
than their muscles are growing, and exercise is seldom
delivered by their parents, who have little to say
after a long day of working for the
man and the occasional woman who are apt to
point out their faults with a smirk and a giggle, and
a gesture to the door with one nubby finger.

I point. I get to the point where
the Ghost with greasepaint laughs
again. I'm sure he knows how warm apple juice smells
like urine. But does he know how warm urine smells
like apple juice? I want to see him keep
that same look pasted to his face, the
one he wears to entertain the little children who
trust him to deliver them from the boredom of having to
learn the alphabet phonetically in a
classroom with broken heaters always tuned
to eighty-four degrees in the AM. Hearts are swallowed.
We both decide
to drink.