Carnival

Tonight we have grown jaunty on the boardwalk 
Sighing through our cotton candy whispers
Martyring the merry-go-round 
Mounting its immortal painted horses
Over and over again 
Fooling crafty clowns who ambulate 
Past lovers on the boardwalk
Hiding wrinkles behind painted smiles—
These self-proclaimed masters of masquerade! 

Yet there’s a gold-tinged moonlight 
Settled in the cracks between the planks;
Submerged in sea-green splashes,
Splintered from the beat of youthful footsteps,
The boardwalk bears the burden of two little heroes;
The oceanside grows jealous,
Spouting its complaints and waves

I apprehend our music in these mermaids 
Crooning from the cracks between the planks 

Yet then a little girl runs through 
Spinning on the Ferris wheel 
Casting puppet shadows on the boardwalk
As her fingers reach the clouds,
And soon she is eighteen 

I’ve always had a weapon— 
A knife I’ve hidden deep inside its sheath;
I’ve spent my evenings at the anvil 
Crafting mixed-up toys 
And ammunition 
Sharpening my blades
To wage a mêlée or a sneak-attack
But recently I’m drained

With every passing moonbeam 
Streaking through her wispy platinum hair 
With every wandering bubble 
That she blows from plastic circles on a stick
Your conscience grows nomadic
My dignity distends 
And bursts

These male warriors—
Sprouting rhizomatic lines over their cheeks 
Wisdom half-incarnate yet eroticism fledged
Dare they take a stance on me?

Well, if you run away
I’ll give myself to the next traveler 
Through this carnival of reason
Yet amongst these luscious candidates
You’ve inherited the luxury of hesitation 
From the will of the discriminating cosmos
And every time I run away 
I face a battle of diminishing returns 
On brashness and my aptitude 
For looking pretty 

Every Sunday morning,
Hunched over the frying pan, 
I am cracking eggs for breakfast 
Wondering whether I won’t be that mother hen 
Pumping out those eggs 
For boys to eat for breakfast
Scrambled, of course (the only way they’ve known to live)
At times, I keep the cartons past their expiration dates 
Until I amble towards the grocery store
Buy another dozen 
Crack them once again 
For men to eat 

If now I am restrained 
Then what might I be in twenty years?

In these final days,
Before I’ll need to paint my hair just to compete 
With all the girls turning twenty-one,
I have primped and spouted 
Rhetoric that transcends ages 
Stuffing up my head with knowledge, money and equations 
Literary feats and myriads of conversations
Yet these beasts that lord over 
The reign of featherbrained frivolity
Are worth much more just for the way
Their skin runs smooth over their cheeks 
As sticks of shiny yellow butter 
Yet some of them are margarine 

And in my vacillation I have minced up decades
Caught up in this capitalist charade 
I have bought up pinwheels from the boardwalk 
Traded up my tickets for a bubblegum pink teddy
Stood in line for hotdogs, popcorn, and confections  
Yet I cannot barter with these little girls 
Lined up at the pub 
Dolled up in a little dress at twenty-one
Blonde

And where was I 
When I was eighteen and then twenty-one 
Keeping conscience to myself 
Along the beach
When my propriety was nestled 
In his hand

If only I was blonde with margarine cheeks! 

Now they can decide!
And I am jogging alongside trains
No—I am this puny locomotive!
And spruced up as a speeding train, 
I will reach the finish line 
Without admiring the scenery 
Flowing towards a bleary origin 
Where, frail, we will have run our course 

Yet man is like a rowboat 
And it is all romantic on the lake 
There is no sign of gutter on the streets 
The infrastructure that indicates modernity
In civilization’s final days 
There is an endless orange-purple sunset 
And girls wait in line to ride on that romantic lake 

Until we all turn into ugly trains 
Devoid of passengers 

And there are no eggs left in the grocery store