FesteVale

FesteVale: Clown-//-Gal

Why the rush before the mourn.

I still don’t know,

but keep on the day dancing sprint,

as if without clown or gal in my sight, my path would melt and my day drop to night.

I sometimes cannot seem to stop,

I sometimes cannot still this throbbing heart that will not yield

to the sound of its own song. But rather to Another’s marches on.

as if to war—she would defend till death this Holy Other’s right to speak “Macbeth!”

she would.

she would.

she would know him till his last breath,

but

know him but to disavow her.

nothing fears more than the chin that must uphold its own

and nothing else.

no other subject,

no child, nor parent, nor sun, nor insect.

nothing rules her but her own reflection,

and oh the lonesome terror inspection

that follows on this kingly quest:

the scrutinizing patient test:

have I been for me and mine?

have I spoke for none divine

but that might mouse that waits alone

inside my darkest corner chasm

huddles near the warmth of bone

breathes in ticking dying spasm—

but

yet too with love

(even bottled on a sea salted shelf)

(for) who is struggling to know herself

crying to be saved;

It hurts to hear the bell you’re dealt

but it’s too late to be helped

the discovery we have made

that we exist…

have I stopped?

is this my pause?

does clown smile now

where Feste was?

and gal smile too

before the Vale call

to be known?

to be known is only by one.

and such knowledge follows funerals.

and heralds circus shooting stars