...Face Paint...

Should you choose 

to gaze at me, 

here is what you’ll get:

One eye painted just so, 

   just      so… 

and to balance the visual equation,

an extra there on this 

horizontal plane,

a mere    

few inches    

to the right.

Further out,   two 

more or less matching ears…

Then back to the middle 

and down ever so,

there an oh so delicate yet 

somewhat overstated nose.

Beneath that you’ll find lips—  

lush, supple, with just a hint of fleshy.

Tear drops upon my cheeks  

and I with that perpetual smile. 

Everything in its proper place.

Just so.      

    Just so.      

        Just so.

A precise visage of bulbous symmetry

that equates to a beauty     un-eased.

Ahhhh… Mister DeMille, 

I’m ready    for my    close-up.

A recent survey of children found

that they universally dislike 

wallpaper that features 

the faces of clowns.

That they find it, quote:

“frightening” and      

         “unknowable”.

And here just now, 

out on the horizon,

darkness descends on 

some child’s bedroom,

and there 

we find a young boy  

cowering beneath 

chin-drawn blankets.

Why?    Why?

Because today Mom n’ Dad deduced 

that he in his room of gloom

needed a little cheering up.

And that night…

That night his lights go dim 

   in a room of bedlam,

for there are    faces upon his wall.

Faces that look like 

none he has ever seen.

Malformed expressions of 

   Picasso proportions

all destined to induce 

lifelong Freudian trauma.

Clowns.

They put CLOWNS on his wall.

And there like Kurtz at the 

end of his gruesome river,

this boy lies staring up 

at his lone blank ceiling 

   murmuring… 

“The Horror.      

        The Horror.”

And so… 

And so here I stand,

gazing out into a room 

full of “unknowable” faces.

Some animate.

Some inanimate.

Some of you Pablo Picasso.

Some of you Francis Bacon.

Still others…   Edvard Munch.

Each unique face

an unknowable canvas of which

the requisite façade of paint 

   means nothing.

Enigmas every one of you.

And me?

You look at me and 

   see a clown.

Unlike you, 

I too wish I could 

dismiss it all as

nothing more than    façade,

but of course

we all know I’d be lying.

Listen.  

Listen.

There in the distance…

The roar of lions.

The sound of a raucous calliope.

Pardon my abrupt departure   

but     somewhere a circus

   awaits its 

most precious    star.

©08 Jack Hubbell