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    Circus

     

    I taught my tongue to carve Lassie out of cantaloupes

     

                              So I guess my style is melancholy

     

    This whole world’s a fucking circus and my son’s the bearded lady

     

     

     

    Everybody’s got their faces painted but the make-up cracks and peels

     

      And we all go round, to shallow music on this moonlit Ferris wheel

     

     

     

    My world’s frustration, silent agony, insanity, up all night

     

    God made me an artist with no ability to paint and capture this starry night

     

    And I can’t articulate the colors, my marble statues cold and hollow

     

      My quartet, missing all the strings, so I specialize in the bravado

     

           And my voice of many waters muted, by the words I’m influenced to speak

     

      My thoughts form sounds that crash and hiss, sands the water and the beach

     

     

     

    In my honesty lies the power, But I’ve been taught to carefully hide

     

      The cracked walls and broken glass, the imperfections on the inside

     

    My heart’s a rented room; I charge them $90 a week

     

      Six months later, after believing their stories, I’m thinking this ain’t the business for me

     

    And I’m feeling I’m some kind of spirit, just trapped in a human body

     

        I taught my tongue to carve Lassie out of cantaloupes so I guess my style is melancholy

     

     

     

    Maybe I got unrealistic goals and it took me too long to see this

     

      I dedicated my life to writing without fingertips and moving the pencils by telekinesis

     

                    Through my eyes you’ll find a hobbit hole that houses a little genius

     

     

     

     

     

    And the music plays all night, his soul bleeds of lost affections

     

      Stacks of papers, books, beers, trash

     

          The endless pursuit of inexplicable perfection

     

     

     

    And the demons always taunt him, but his spirit guides him through

     

      That’s why his lips move when he’s all by himself

     

             You always wondered who he was talking to

     

    Trying to process the information and become everything I was sent to be

     

    I taught my tongue to carve Lassie out of cantaloupes, so I guess my style is melancholy

     

     

     

    A stagnant pond that dreams of waterfalls, Excuse me while I kiss the sky

     

     A square peg trapped in a circle’s hole, a stone gargoyle’s hopes to fly

     

    And I still believe in magic, fed by a fantasy that keeps me sane

     

      A prism trapped inside a four sided box, it’s writers block, I can’t explain..

     

    If I had a chance to do it over, I’d do it all again

     

      I yanked the I.V. out, my body’s cold, but I really needed a pen

     

    Drunk driving in the rain and I’m not accepting any calls

     

       Wondering if I hit the gas and close my eyes, would I splatter art across that wall

     

     

     

    My past a dead end of so-called friends, and I lost track of the names they call me

     

    I taught my tongue to carve Lassie out of cantaloupes

     

            I’m pretty sure you’ll find this melancholy

     

     

     

     

     

    You’ll find this poem on the roof, next to the sketches of some lady

     

       A list of names of people that fucked me over, then turned around and called me crazy

     

     

     

    You’ll find a note that says I ran off with the circus

     

              I’ll be that clown, but nobody plays me…

     

    I taught my tongue to carve Lassie out of cantaloupes

     

        And my son’s the bearded lady

     

     

     

    ***

     

     

    I noticed you didn’t move…

     

              You never touched me back,

     

                   It was like you couldn’t feel, and I was wondering what made you numb

     

    I looked into your eyes and I noticed the pain, through the glazed look

     

                          Afraid to ask, because I didn’t really know you that well

     

     But, I noticed you didn’t move

     

                All at once understanding the power of, “wanting to be accepted”

     

                         Maybe even, “wanting to be loved”

     

    I wanted to ask you questions

     

                   Deep inside feeling like I was exploiting your weakness

     

                       Telling myself that I, one more person

     

                                               Couldn’t, wouldn’t, make a difference anyway

     

    I felt your doubts, your confusion

     

    And I noticed you never moved

     

          Willing to give yourself, in return for something……

     

              However uncomfortable it made you

     

                               Knowing you had secrets

     

                                  Not wanting and wanting to know at the same time

     

    But we didn’t have that much time

     

            You holding the door,

     

                   Me trying to get you onto the floor

     

                            Feeling like you had been placed in similar situations, a dozen times before…

     

     

    But I remembered how you didn’t move

     

       And I caught glimpses of your inner-child

     

                     Whose story was long-winded, heart wrenching and sad

     

    And I’m almost certain it lived in fear of something

     

    And now, all at once I’m glad you changed your mind

     

        I’m happy they pushed the door open

     

            I couldn’t live with that on my conscience

     

    Because I noticed you never moved

     

        And it was a beautiful thing that,

     

                                        “Nothing really happened”

     

    About The Author

    Julian 'Tone' Foster for Post Magazine by Michael Hanlon

    Tearz

    A spoken word artist, poet, and author from Rochester, New York whose spoken word piece, “Covenant” was published in the fall-winter 2014 aaduna issue along with a video of him performing that particular piece. A guest on “Conversations,” he has been writing and performing poetry since he was a teenager and was awarded the gold medal in the local NAACP Act-So competition two years in a row and then went on to compete at the national competition in poetry and dramatics. Since that time, he has continued to write poetry and perform spoken word on the local Rochester circuit and in Central New York. He has completed two poetry CD’s, the latest EP called “The Obsession” with his group, The Vagabonds. When asked about his stage name, he says “Tearz is perfection; it’s the exact moment when everything inside you is manifested in physical form and the world gets to see how you feel….” His poetic style can best be described as dramatic, aggressive, emotive, and poignant, and his debut novel, Before I Wake, was published under the pen name Julian Foster. A participant in Rochester’s First Annual Black Author Expo (May, 2015,) he hopes to bridge the gap between people from different walks of life through the written and spoken word art forms.