Featured Poem: The Circus of Death

The Circus of Death by Charles Bukowski

it’s there

from the beginning, to the middle, to the

end,

there from light to darkness,

there through the wasted

days and nights, through

the wasted years,

the continuance

of moving toward death.

sitting with death in your lap,

washing death out of your ears

and from between your toes,

talking to death, living with death while

living through the stained wall and the flat

tires

and the changing of the guard.

living with death in your stockings.

opening the morning blinds to death,

the circus of death,

the dancing girls of death,

the yellow teeth of death,

the cobra of death,

the deserts of death.

death like a tennis ball in the mouth of

a dog.

death while eating a candlelight dinner.

the roses of death.

death like a moth.

death like an empty shoe.

death the dentist.

through darkness and light and

laughter,

through the painting of a

masterpeice,

through the applause for the bowing

actors,

while taking

a walk through Paris,

by the broken-winged

bluebird,

while

glory

runs through your fingers as

you

pick up an orange.

through the bottom of the sky

divided into sections like a

watermelon

it

bellows

silently,

consumes nations and nations,

squirrels, fleas, hogs,

dandelions,

grandmothers, babies,

statues,

philosophies,

groundhogs,

the bullfighter, the bull and

all those killers in the

stadium.

it’s Plato and the murderer of a

child.

the eyes in your head.

your fingernails.

it’s amazing, amazing, amazing.

we’re clearly at the edge.

it’s thunder in a snail’s shell.

it’s the red mark on the black widow.

the the mirrow without a reflection.

it’s the singular viewpoint.

it’s the fog over Corpus Christi.

it’s in the eye of the hen.

it’s on the back of the turtle.

it’s moving at the sun

as you put your shoes on for the last

time

without

knowing it.

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