...Car Tooned...

To envision the necessity for rules 

would somehow infer the prior existence 

of those whom we declare to be lawless.

Submission to some societal norm. 

Them who do and those who don’t. 

Tosh, twaddle, trash and 

   turgid trumpery. 

Their palette of etiquette—

nuanced shades of righteous rot. 

Those whose professed 

manifestos rest  

upon what vile colors 

they here detest. 

What rainbow hues 

dare fail their test. 

What tribal tints 

they hold in jest. 

The color red.

The color green.

That yellow which falls in between. 

Within this particular intersection, 

it is not the color of the traffic lights 

which I here now find disturbing. 

No, it’s the color of that man, 

there in the car to my right. 

Oh, perhaps you here find 

my chromatic critique 

just this side of indecorous, 

but now listen: 

Before you lambast the lurid locution, 

let     me     explain. 

It’s 7 AM in the morning 

and the man there in the far right lane 

has a color inherent to his skin 

which leaves me naught but unhinged. 

Pigmentation violation. 

Vile pigment taint as paint. 

Yes, taint as pigment paint. 

His face was covered in paint. 

Awash with a worrisome white, 

crimson besmirched lips and a 

pseudo smear of charcoal tears.

Surrounding his face, 

a fringe of electric hair, 

and there mid mug 

where it shoulda’ been pug, 

a bulbous big red nose. 

Polka dots! Polka dots! Polka dots!

His billowed sleeve hanging there 

at the door’s window sill 

is bedazzled with brash polka dots! 

Aghast! 

I and this fellow inhuman 

have just now arrived at a 

mutually mute intersection,

and that man… 

That man over there is a freakin’ clown! 

Oh, and I abruptly presume 

   to dislike him.     Why? 

You need to ask?!

Look at him!

He and I are most 

certainly not the same!

At this junction in our lives, 

should he choose to look at me, 

he sees nothing but utter enigma. 

But I… 

I look at him and see 

catastrophic chaos. 

I see havoc and anarchy. 

I see riot and maniacal    melee. 

And no, 

none of these said attributes 

denote the greater good. 

Is that man beneath the skin  

any less a clown than that  

paint upon his ludicrous face 

   here now     signifies? 

Would he be any less a clown 

were opposed to the wash of white, 

his skin was painted 

   entirely orange?

As a responsible auto operator, 

I have certain apprehensions. 

Foremost among such 

concussive concerns 

is that mental   motor-   manics

veer volatile 

   and frantic. 

Listen: 

There are those 

within our government 

who decide who can or 

cannot be trusted to 

safely operate a car. 

And here at some 

    adjudicated point 

within our mutually shared past, 

there was someone who came to decree 

that this one clown could drive. 

That beyond the absurd fact 

that he’s currently sharing said 

traffic intersection with me, 

there could come a point when 

his vehicle might actually 

contain passengers other than himself. 

Their dire destiny   aligned 

with said silly chauffer, he, 

tee-he-he, a bungling      clown. 

And this… 

Just who decided this? 

Who cast their vaunted vote 

that such a man with 

garish painted face 

might come to hold dominion over 

the fate of them who 

here come to fall 

before his 

wobble wonky wheel? 

Scaramouch. 

Prithee a Pantaloon.

He, a blatant buffoon.

And here we two make eye contact. 

I with him; 

   he with I. 

Both of us sharing 

this fateful intersection. 

Both of us waiting for the other 

to concuss commit to our 

mutual head-on collision. 

I have no sense of humor, 

and thus in fear 

for my sullen soul, 

bequeath this clown 

his right of way, 

and yield unto him 

a buxom bozo berth. 

And there as our circus suspense 

inflates balloons to bursting point, 

that cartooned turn-indicator 

over there at the distant curb 

begins to pulse and palpitate. 

Yet opposed to spilling forth a 

cartwheel of clowns and chaos, 

its tires merely edge to the right 

and accelerate yon 

to utter absurdity, 

whilst I instead 

turn to the left 

and away 

towards a secure and 

   sensible world, 

raptly absent apocalypse. 

Ó2019 Jack David Hubbell