GROCK




I’m sure most of you have heard the story of the man who tells an analyst he has lost the will to live.  The doctor advises the melancholy figure to go to the circus that night and spend the evening laughing at Grock, the world’s funniest crown.  ‘After you have seen Grock, I am sure you will be much happier.’  The patient rises to his feet and looks sadly at the doctor.  As he starts to leave, the doctor says, ‘By the way, what is your name?’  The man turns and regards the analyst with sorrowful eyes.
‘I am Grock.’
                                                                                                                                                 Groucho Marx

                        
                                       in your eyes       what your mouth

                                                0                0
   it is written                            is yet to speak
                                                       V            
                                                               
spongy
                                                  mouth        a                          p
                                       unhinged                                                                an          
   ca
                                                                                              ake
                                                             
b l e a c h e d                              i v o r i e s

            d a z z l e      r a z z l e


                                         word less                 a fluency of  t r e m b l i n g
billowing ing ing ing skirts of overcoat    a breathing bellows heaving  or
swampy dun fungus bubbling                like badlands in fairy-books . . .
(or humps of anger?!)

leg less   legs? =  (pipes within) tubes of striped baggy trouser
escalate    sideways    cross    stage    foot less   by    footlights    upright

                              seal     flippers            rippling               off

                                            his garb expressly alive as his mask, his mime, his moues
               
now he’s hitting the piano keys so hard    he’s soaring the air  flying sky   hi!
saws the air with giant bow     on mini-fiddle       wrong side up!
twirls the chair in whirl    but trips over bow in purl
                                                  & lands bolt upright
to dance Cossack
hands down

mounting the chair   one leg
slips    (gasp!)                 treads air                  but other grips
         edge still
next breaks seat
standing framed                                in skeletal chair
jumpingjiminycrickets                         clean                       through                    hoop!
                                                straightupto
chairback rib
what  b a l a n c e!                 breath  l e s sss
in blink  sitting   on shoulder bone
                                                                                                & snatching a rib
                 limps a                    way
on                                a                                 crutch

feigns exit

stops all of a sudden                stares deadpancake at seas of smiles                & utters one word

WARUM?

    = why?

Michael Small
November 29-December 4, 2009

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