Starting the Trend, Mr. Myself

I think perhaps the fair it would be to admit that I started the new trend of this week which is what we might call the poem. Lots of person all of the sudden are writing poem about their emotion of the heart which they feel inside of them at the state of the world today. How can I possibly let this trend go away the way Mr. Milhouse Nixon let the secret tapes go away from his White House into the court records? I can't do it. I have in my heart so many feelings that I want you to understand the way Adam Sandler understand the sacred history of Mummenschanz. Here is a poem I write because so many emotions welling up in my bent heart of JCV.


Mimes Hitting Everyone with Secret Tears
by JCV


When the man with the white, white paint face approach,
he have gloves on hands and beret on head.
He look like Night of the Silent Dead.
He begin to act like box surrounding him,
like invisible rope being pulled toward him,
He climb ladder that no one can see.
Who can this white, white man be?
He jerk around like robot man,
but I getting too uncomfortable with this garbage.
I slap him across this white, white face with loaf of bread.
Yes, slap him across the painted, painted head.
He didn't bled. He just spin around and sigh a lot.
Why peoples of this nature in the parking lot?
Don't the police come and arrest them?
I can't eat that bread now. It break on his head.
Two piece of it fall on the ground, and it have paint on it,
white, white head paint all over bread like butter,
gross paint butter on my broken loaf of bread, angry words I mutter,
"You cursed stupid white face paint quiet monster in the parking lot."
He follow me home, still pulling invisible rope, tying unseeable knot,
still surrounded in the box no one can see, still climb the ladder,
the clear ladder, all the way to my house, he never leave.
He is in the bathtub now, him sitting there with no sound, I cannot believe,
just sitting in water, climbing ladder, in the clear box, the rope,
just sitting, white, white paint face, bread crumb on cheek, biting the soap,
quiet, quiet, white paint face, never speaking, in bathtub.
Sometimes I slap the face, but he never leave, never leave.
He never leave.
Never leave.

the end