So Blessed

Bruce McRae

Under a moon like a bucket kicked
over.

Under the strangled stars and
night’s insults.

In a cinema of abstractions

is a comedian reaching for his
glasses,

reaching across the room’s small
universe,

reaching for the untouchable
word,

a word infused with magic and
fractions,

that triggers other words, that
dances its dance.

A comedian for all times, and for
none.

Who floats an inch above the
common earth.

Jester in the palace of nouns.

Joker in a shuffled pack.

A blade of multi-coloured grass

pushed around by the world’s thin
winds,

climbing the sleep-besotted
mountains.

A bee, the comedian produces
honey.

A vulture, it’s circling above
its task.

The comedian is a metaphor, or
meteor,

the known world a game we can
play –

as if an oral cyst the tongue
can’t ignore.

The comedian, set upon by demons
and sea-lice,

has a mouth full of crackers.

He’s in a room the colour of old
money.

In a dirt house, wearing tiger
skin pyjamas.

He of the tantric signature,

who juggles pencils and mice,

his jokes like a bad cheque or a
cough.

We’re in the hour of red,

and he’s the one reaching over
the table’s void

for a mug of incense, for green
bread,

grasping the inkstone of evening.

The comedian is the one so
blessed,

the one who is two, and then
three.

He’s the fool pulling on dusk’s
velvet cord,

a babe abandoned in the
wilderness,

brought up as a slave in a royal
household,

carrying his master’s slippers,

a eunuch in the service of
princesses,

girls in long gold braids,

girls adorned, asleep in their
tight dresses,

girls the morning announces

to the braying crowds, the
comedian

reaching for his comely cup,

clutching jagged angles,

stumbling while holding on to the
walls,

the butterfly in his blue palm

a bug of unusual beauty.

 

The comedian as giant

reaching down low to move a
chair,

drawing the age-old curtains
closed,

pursuing the millimeter,
traveling sand to sand

on a lark-filled escapade, on a
journey,

a jaunt from this place into
another

and hoisting his audience of one
along,

spinning a line in dream-vague
entertainment.

Laughing at his own bespoken joke

and even he doesn’t get it.



Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a Pushcart nominee with over

a thousand poems published internationally in magazines such as
Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His latest book out now,
‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy’ is available on Amazon and through Cawing
Crow Press. His poems on video can be viewed on YouTube’s
BruceMcRaePoetry

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