It’s always time for the rodeo
when I’ve accepted the fetal position
as a way of life for fear
of putting on the clown suit.

Doubt comes barging in
like a mad cocaine pirate
that I welcome on-board
with streamers, ribbons and balloons
as my dreams vacuously congeal
into dried husks so often that I pray
for monsters under my bed
with dollars in my teeth.

It’s all relative to whatever
disaster I touch and mold into shape
using the clay that mother gave me.

I almost feel like begging
for the knife in these alleyways
filled with uncertain strangers with
cartoon lives
but all they do is
kill me with conversation until
I trip on slumber wondering
why the pen is so heavy
when everything seems so much like air
on which floats the dust
of long dead sheep.