Threadbare Tyranny

Ron Koppelberger

Threadbare Tyranny

Chimes and withering roses, warm gusts of perfume and tides of killjoy resolve filled the spaces and clutter that Bacon The Clown occupied. “They’re vermin, dirty lousy vermin!” he whispered to the green witch smiling back at him from the vanity mirror. “Lousy rotten bloodsuckers and jerks, all of em rotting jerks!” he said as his body quivered with anticipation for the performance.
The year had gone as well as it would have had he been in hell, in loathsome cotton candy misery, in popcorn shame and costumed arrays of clown hatred. Tempests and twilight fires he thought as he added a few final touches to the grease paint on his face. I’m threadbare with all of this crap he thought, threadbare and burned to the bone with tiny smiling faces and overgrown children looking for the hoot, the holler, the guffaw. His woe had been the motivating factor in his aggression and he simply screamed with joy when the little ones cried out in fear. He grimaced and the paint crinkled with his maniacal grin. “I’ll show them the tyranny of the threadbare, the tyranny of the wonted clown, in all his glory and with just a touch of glee!” he said aloud as he made his way to the dressing-room door. His black gloved hands slid against the door brass and the knob remained steadfast, outside he could hear laughter, mocking him, shaming him with it’s accusation. “Let me out!” he screamed at the door, “Let me out!” The laughter continued and he reared back and slammed his fist into the door. “Let me the hell out!” he screamed in rage. The laughter continued and he grabbed a chair and slammed it against the door until it splintered. “I’ll show you the tyranny of the threadbare, I’ll show you!” he screamed. He grabbed the knob again and jerked hard, the door wiggled in it’s frame for a moment and the trim came loose falling to the spotted dirty floor.
Stepping back he ran toward the door with his shoulder. The door slammed inward before he made contact with it and the carnival barker stepped through the door. The momentum of both men knocked them to the ground and the barker died on the spot after hitting his head hard against the floor. Bacon kneeled over the barker and shivered with the cool air that floated across the circus common. Spit rolled from between his lips and he coughed a few times as he tried to rouse the barker.
Two children screamed and pointed at the clown, “He’s the one, he’s crazy, he killed that man!” Bacon raised his head and shook, “No…it was an accident, I was locked in and it was an accident!” A crowd gathered and the clown tried to regain his feet. A large bearded woman stomped on his foot and he fell back to the ground. “He killed Al. He killed Al the Carney Leroy!” Leroy looked at the clown and slammed his fist into his face. Leroy’s hand came away with a smear of paint and blood. Bacon fell to the ground and moaned, “The door was locked…I couldn’t get out, it was an accident I swear it!”
There were dozens of people around the clown now and they all took turns punching and kicking him. “STTTTTOOOOOPPPPPPP…it was an accident, an accident!” he said through broken and bleeding lips. When they were finished they tossed his body into one of the large green trash dumpsters along with his belongings.
He awoke near midnight. There was dried blood covering his face and he had two black eyes that were swollen and puffy. His legs ached from the bruising and his side hurt like crazy. “Arrrrrggggghhhh!” he said as he spit out a gob of blood. Gray clouds tinged the midnight sky and he thought of moving west as he climbed out of the dumpster. “Gotta get goin!” he said to himself and the dirty green dumpster. He staggered to the main tent as he looked for the generator that powered everything in the circus. There it was…ten gallon cans of diesel fuel lined the yard next to the generator. Bacon reached into his baggy trousers and pulled out a lighter. “I’ll teach those no good jerks!” He dumped over one of the canisters and watched it flow under the main tent. Reaching into his pocket again he pulled out a scrap of paper and lit it. Tossing the burning paper into the diesel he limped-ran to the edge of the encampment and the road leading west away from the circus. The big tent caught fire and by the time he got a mile away there were several explosions.
“Gotta go west.” he said to himself as he made his way into the night a threadbare tyranny on his mind.

Little Tyke

Ron Koppelberger

Little Tyke

“How’s my little tyke?” the tall farmer said to the tiny clown staring up at him. “Kiss my butt!” the clown replied with a sneer and a quick wave of his hands. “I can see that this little devil needs some learnin Margie.” the farmer said to his lanky wife. The tiny clown coughed and lit a cigar, puffing on the fat brown smoke he said, “ What comes with tall water farmer Zeek?”
“Well little man I’m sure I don’t know, what comes with tall water?” the farmer replied.
“Boogers and crap, that’s what farmer Zeek!” he yelled up at his questioning face. The small clown stepped closer and stomped on the farmers foot. The blue-jeaned man stood back and whooped as pain shot through his leg and up into his stomach. “Ye eeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhhaaaaaaa!” he hollered. The clown laughed and pinched Margret on the rump.
“Yer a sweet lookin thang lady!” he said as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. Margeret grabbed her howling husband by the hand and stormed off toward the main tent. The clown chuckled and looked at the bottom of his tiny shoes. There were razor barbs runing the length of his tiny black loafers and a spring loaded nail near the tips of both shoes. “That’ll teach those no good sons a guns!” The tiny clown guffawed again and scratched his head, maybe he had been a litle bit rash with the bean poles he thought. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a pocket mirror and smoothed back his colored hair. A cherubic face stared back at him, stripes of grease paint ran beneath his eyes similar to a football player and his lips were bright red. “Perfect for the show.” he whispered to the mirror.

The Morning Dew

Ron Koppelberger

The Morning Dew

Mottled sunshine flittered against his pale skin as he roamed the garden path. The dew shone brightly on the Lilacs and Roses but mostly he noted the dew on the stray Dandelion that had grown up in the middle of the Daisy bushes. It was there that he found solace, a type of peace likened to a long sleep and a good meal. She had handed him a cut Dandelion before she left. Her presence or rather her lack thereof was little evidence of her visit nevertheless the Dandelion was a reminder.
He had been sitting on the front porch of his Spanish style ranch, the alcove was arched and provided a good view of the gardens and the well kept lawn. The whiskey he was sipping at tasted warm and welcome, he had been thinking of his predicament. The fact that Wolf was fifty-seven and alone, without consort or love bothered him but not quite enough to do anything about it, besides no one would replace Grace his wife. She had died of bone cancer and the process had been long and drawn out; he hadn’t been surprised by Grace’s death just exhausted and sad. She had been gone a good ten years or rather mediocre ten years. He had spent most of that time alone except for Rain, she lived across the copse in Courage Glenn. He had gone out with her several times. She was attractive and a bit younger than wolf and willing to start a relationship with him if he wanted it, he just didn’t know. He had been thinking about Rain when he heard the moan. It was a sorrowful sound, like a female in pain. He stood from the polished wooden swing and called out, “Is there anyone there, are you ok?” Jasmine and dreams of carefree seasons filled his mind strangely for a moment. “Is there anyone there?” he repeated into the dark of the garden. He heard the moan again and took a few steps forward toward the path. A promised destiny he thought, what if I go into that garden and find her hurt, bleeding maybe even dieing? A journey begins by the way of thrush and thrash he thought as he stepped out into the yard.
He stepped past a marker and a measure of the past, the red rose bush his wife had loved so much, he paused for a moment and caressed one of the blossoms, folded and compact in the darkness. Farther down the path he could see the faint glow of something, it looked like the outline of a woman. He moved forward down the path toward the light when he heard the moan again. It was loud and filled with grief. He paused again and looked into the dark toward the glowing figure, was it a ghost, he thought of Grace for a moment when she spoke. “Come to me Wolf, Come to me!” she coaxed. He stood there for a moment wondering and praying both. What if this is madness, he had been alone a long time, maybe he was losing his mind. She called again, “Come to me my love, come to me Wolf!” she insisted. The voice was not his wife’s, she had died of bone cancer ten years ago and he knew it could not be her, but then who was this woman calling him into the dark, a ghost? She moaned again and it sounded more like a sob. “Come to me!” she pleaded.
“Who are you, what do you want with me?” he said with just a bit of fear.
“I’m dead, I’m dead, you must help me Wolf, you have to!” she moaned in a quiet whisper, closer now and visible to Wolf. She was beautiful, close to his age and…she was glowing in a strange amber light. He stepped closer to her and she reached her hand forward to touch his. A tiny spark of electricity jumped between their hands and Wolf felt a low vibrating intensity overwhelm him. “You must help me Wolf!” she said directly to him. He was having a hard time believing his eyes, she was trailing a halo of fire from behind, was it the damn whiskey, he didn’t feel drunk. “I’m dead Wolf, and I don’t know what to do!” she cried.
Wolf said, “You look alive as me honey.” he said as he attempted to console her.
There was a rattling in the bushes and she grabbed his hand, the flow of energy felt good and he smiled oblivious to her fear. “We must leave, it’ll find us here!” she insisted. The bushes to the side of the path shook in the distance and there was a cracking sound as if tree limbs were breaking. “We must leave!” she pleaded again. Just then there was a high pitched scream from the far end of the garden and the sound of water, like a river rushing furiously. She pulled him toward the house nearly dragging him. He watched as a trail of fire blossomed out behind her as she moved. The sweet syrup of Jasmine incense and wild honey assailed his senses for a moment as they moved onto the front porch. “That’s a soul that abides by the darkness of an indigo night, wonting in search of spirits, and the eyes Wolf, the eyes are terrible!” she informed him. “We must abide the fear with passion, passion for what was and what will be. We must become one with the moment!” she pointed into the cabin with a ghostly trail of sparks.
They locked the door behind them the shadows of the cabin dark and warm. She stood like a glowing fiery specter before him, her arm outstretched and inviting. The terror outside the cabin forgotten, left behind the instant she moved into the cabin. They would be one with the night and life and forever, had he found his wife, he wasn’t sure. He thought for a moment and smiled, he didn’t care she was his now and he was hers. The night wore on and he sipped at the whiskey glass contemplating his new love. She would see him through ghost or not, she would see him through. The clock on the wall read 2:45 A.M. and the refrigerator ticked coolly in the kitchen as the night wore on.

Amy Huffman

Friendly? Flutter

The surf was a deafening as the silent touch
of hand against arm.  A subtle pull:
of wave and warmth and almost

swept away.  

My toes and thoughts tangled.  Tumbled.
Caught.  The direct flash
of the wind-brushed sand broke the spell.
Running backwards through mist and memories
I stumbled only twice.  Reconfiguring
the argument to a plea and back again.

I found the music.  Disturbingly distracting.
And drawing me into a blurred focus.  Land-
locked arms.  Smiling.  Drumming.  Twirling.
Rhythm forgoes responsibility.  And consequences
fall to the left of remembrance.

Three beats against the wind, and it’s easy.
When you are dancing with an angel,
you can easily forget ,to care,
that the devil wants ,you,
to go for a swim.

Purity's Vengeance

Little boys should never play

with matches inside a mind

field(ed) by timers and dice.

Duck! (Or was it dick?)  I know,

luck is not the lady you had hoped for.

Or the tramp you ran out the back.

Rather, she is a black-fisted bitch

with a paw for each of your eyes.

Scratch them out yourself.

Her nails are still wet. 

From leeching your brother's sin. 

Mistaken.

You are an only child?

Well, only a child would latch

on to such irrelevant distinctions

in the face of such sanctimonious slaughter.

Get your point out of my face!

Before I show how hollow your pants really are.

Ah ha!  Now the true trick takes

shape.  Shadow and light

help my sight(ing).  Of your

most embellished guilts.  I'll take

two.  They are smaller than both of us

hoped.  (Let them go.)  You would

only choke on their seams.

Aligned.  Alight.

I count electric sheep

all night.  Their Frankenwool flames

dripping from fictitious hillsides.  I know

I lit the torches myself.  They Bah

Bah Bah me.  Bad!  But I am not

the scientist who infested them with this

dream life.  My nightmare

continues, a waking

                                 haunt, devoid of blinking.

At least such strobing would be soothing. 

Instead I shoot

thimbles at the ceiling, marking

their physical march across my psychic waves.

Julie Kovacs

Garden of Stained Glass

That gray cloudy sky turned to pink

as you stared past the stained glass frame

of your childhood on weekends.

Only the fruit on the orange tree remained

jasmine replaced the dingy sneaker smell

after each romp through the woods.

But now nothing is left to worry over

not even the sour milk

that was left sitting on the counter

the cat did not even bother to drink.

Instead of your arms being covered in dirt

they now wore bands of gold

gold for today

gold for tomorrow

gold for eternity

eternity passed into tomorrow and today.

..............................................

One Way Ticket to Paradise

Sitting in the car late that steamy summer night

a mysterious light shone up ahead

dirt road wide enough for one car suddenly appeared

a parting of the trees by a hoot owl named Moses

I sat up in the passenger seat brushing off empty

hot dog and French fry containers

half empty soda cups

were far from being the end of our nightly picnic

when all of a sudden that lone single light

split into two then three, showing colors of a traffic signal.

You seemed amazed as if we stepped into a magical

fairy land where only the wolves came out at night

to howl and people slept soundly with the television set left on.

Not quite in a trance you turned on the ignition and started driving,

following the lights that danced farther down the path right in front of us.

Fireflies they were as I peered close to the windshield

the moonlight guided us into a realm never before seen by

anyone on this side of the earth's veil.

Winding up through hills the car climbed slowly

with the occasional tree root being felt under the tire

once at the top then we slowly went downhill past

the shadows of oaks and maples that danced in the wind

the only comfort I felt from your hand reaching over to

touch my left shoulder, unsure of where we would be taken

and if we would return home safely.

At the bottom of the trail I could see the rising sun in the rear view mirror

blood red against the still dark night

no bats coming to fly towards us nor fear of the unknown

just a blanket of warmth from the honeysuckle air

entering through the open car windows

and the vision of cherry blossom, jacaranda, and floss silk trees

deck out the emerald green landscape

with the sun smiling down

a lake of sparkling diamonds on the surface

nobody else present except seabirds to welcome us home.

..........................

Welcome, Death

Empty faces float around the deserted carnival

seeking a special one of their own kind

a young sixteen year-old girl

who had no desire to die under the maple tree

as the birds sang in the sunlight.

Ticker tape ribbons swirled

at her last birthday celebration

cascading over the forgotten graveyard

where only one headstone

chipped and broken lay

the winged skull upon it

eyeless and restlessly wandering

for its doe-like mistress

seeking a cool drink of life

from a pebble-bottomed brook

only to be startled

gaze upward at

a white face of death.

 

Julie Kovacs lives in Venice, Florida. Her poetry has been published in Children Churches and Daddies, Because We Write, Illogical Muse, Poems Niederngasse, Aquapolis, The Blotter, Danse Macabre, Silver Blade, The Camel Saloon, Falling Star, Blue and Yellow Dog, Veil, Moria, Nether, and Cherry Bleeds. She is the author of two poetry books: Silver Moonbeams, and The Emerald Grail. Her website is at http://thebiographicalpoet.blogspot.com/