For purely economic sense as a sign of the times and other cliches, a September carnival arrives in town to entertain the masses. Let them eat fried cherry pies, snickers on a stick, giggle flavored cotton candy. Clown-clad townies clamor for a dollar to raise a big top full of color and ridicule.
Operating under misconceptions, the coin-fed gypsy dined on change. She returned yearly, a freshly repaired painted lady without apologies. Exposed slightly by her pouting mouth, the gypsy’s crooked teeth painted faintly the color of Daffodil heads bowing to die. The half bodied frozen expression finds redemption through her poesy red cheeks, set back towards a scarlet scarf tied crown and pirate’s lies. Perched like a parrot, she sits behind her glass barred cage. Shining round emerald green eyes plucked from a wolf by vultures that fly to to the will of her invisible sculptor to fill her up at long last. Done, he puts down the tools and trades her for a wife.
Nearly missing her casket wood box, she mechanically forces a finger to point at my heart. I see you, I see you. Then out flies my first fortune of the season and I catch it as fast as a garden mole. Out it slipped from my hungry hands and blew, with all of autumn too, from the vented tent. The parade train outside huffs and stomps and stops to allow the flutter of monarchs waive like a protest banner, written in despair and orange powder from their unfurled wings, now left only with mottled spots of white and black eyes. They rise to the occasion of my good fortune without jealousy, like a dense fog in the last moments of morning. Air finally pulls out a shroud of sound, voices ringing in choirs and singing off key dirges in a hundred and one distant languages.
The deliberate wind whispers lines into my cupped palms, and the pall barer of pain’s fortune read: What say you, magician? What moves the oars echoing waves in still waters? Your new name, Shameless, hides behind golden disgrace. The gypsy, grins with cold laughter on her breath, sour with whiskey. Witch-gray gnarled knuckles extend like cat claws to sharpen on my graceless expression offering more questions.
Then I realize then the answers lay in my hands not on the ground now a snowdrift of straw and white paper slips. Wired and typed off set, her ready to wear fortunes are but all sizes fit one questions, to stop cowards dead in their traps. Falling into an inky dream, I rise in my sleep like a morning hater’s heart, eyes closed as dead rosebuds. My god’s instructions are typed out of tiny slips of the tip of a forked tongue.
A carnival seamstress instructs my Guardian angels to singing to me just off key. “What brought you? What in you still tills seedy dirt rows?” In her moon mask, clenching the truth tightly in her jaw, her hands now ascend towards the top of her box full of heaven-made answers.
Did she mean for me to safely rediscover my reasons? Fortunately, in just that very moment the old girl grew new.