On the alabaster step sat
The little clown all sad
Experience was his pain
Youth was his curse
Beauty his tormentor

The sun shone upon the satin
Of his gay costume
The embroidered slippers
    On his feet
A royal blue were they
As though belonging to a king
Gold stitching tracing
    The curves of the foot
Seemed to make it fact
This Fool's name, by the way
    Was the graceless sound of Jack

Goldfish are not entirely gold
Their scales, fins, and tails
Are other colors
So the scholar regales
But each color is, in fact
Its own kind of gold
The gold you know
Is only yellow gold
    Obvious gold, fool's gold
Gold is merely brilliance,
    A final extreme

That's why it can be
Blue gold, red gold, green gold
Golden heart, golden brain, golden eyes
Golden collar and yoke
Golden rot

The pants are blue,
As royal as the shoes
Billowy and ballooned
They make an odd sound
When his legs move
Like trampling through the bullrushes

The crimped lace
At the cuffs of his pants
Does not hide the silk socks
Bunched at the ankle
But excellent are the pants
In secreting the silk underwear,
    Gentle curves of private places

The heart of an ox
The butcher did give the whore
In return his large hands
Felt the choice of her meat
Knowing where to pinch
Where to knead and gently feel
To steer towards prime choice

The body of the clown's jacket
Is stiff and holding
But he can still move
To perform his tricks

The sleeves are green
Upon his arms walk
Exotic beasts of every color
At his wrists the lace
Caresses his hands

The hem of his jacket
Is a bending 'coaster
At the front the halves join
To form the point, pointing straight down
Anticlines at the sides to make way for hips
A rounded fall in back
To keep out the breeze
Divert the object of the eyes

The red body of the jacket
Sports large buttons from top
    At his throat the snug, stiff fit
    The gold embroidery all about the collar
To bottom where colored thread
    Traces the hem
With bright, unscented flowers
Such marvellous buttons
To capture the viewer
To entertain the bearer

On the left breast
Is a patch of a white heart
Whiter than ivory, purer than silver
But the edges have started to fray

Look close to buildings
No, not the worthless huts and shacks, but
The well built and enduring buildings
Can you not see the faces in them?
Some are happy, some eternally surprised
Others are watching us through down-slanted windows
I swear they are evil!
But other buildings, they seem almost, well--

Sad eyes of brown, dullest color of this pallet
Cheeks painted white with greasestick
Sometimes it itches
Round spots of red on the white
A dab of blue for the nose
Lips full and their own cherry red
Look ripe for kissing
But today they sag in wilting
The eyes are too proud to wet
    The painted face with tears
From under his ruffled, pointed hat
Issued forth a cropping of straw-colored hair
The soft lashes and brows were the same color
And even a sweeter blond amongst sweeter delight

The sun bathed the little clown's face
But no move did the little clown make
His eyes swallowed the light of the blazing sun
The children of dark obsidian
The only indication of life was the licking of lips
By a pretty pink tongue

In his hands he holds a bright ball
His arms upon his lap rest
Soon the king, his master, would call
For his pipe, herbal tobacco soaked in cherry and rum
For his bowl, a dark, rich wine to his lips take
For his jester, full of glee, favored be he

And this little clown is so ashamed
Bereft and empty is his chest
Short of the heart
    That was raped
But no tears will ever smear
The paint of his elegant face

The world will turn on and in time
Pass him by
As alone he will die
Hollow shell and husk
The day creeps into dusk
Hiding his face in the dark
 

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