The book is silent on mimes.
The book tells us two goops may work together, their big heads,
their tight coats, their silly dances. But what to do together?
You ask a goop, but he has no clue.
The tramp clown wears a magic hat but all
his tricks go askew. A clown’s not allowed to cry, but look closely for creases
beneath the make up. Who says clowns can’t pout? Not the
nuts, those pure unadulterated walkarounds in their bathing suits & snowshoes,
with their rifles laden with fish, with their notebooks full of
Who doesn’t love the burlesques: see
the clown as president mispronouncing words, all blue suit and
dunce cap. See the clown
lawyer ready to sue me for giving up their secrets.
The book also fails to mention pilgrim clowns,
so unfunny are they, on their knees to St. Pete’s Shrine
of Ringling. On their knees, bike horns have been taped, which
honk as they go,
white-faced, red-nosed, and laughing. How the townsfolk come out
with bowls of food to offer, though a few do grab their children
instead, tugging them closer when they hear those pilgrims crawling