The Performer
He couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong . . .
His act remained the same . . .
He drew gasps of admiration
Provoking envious gales of laughter,
even with a bad act, a performance filled
with pissed off passion and heartfelt arrogance
conjured up respect
often grudgingly…
He was vital after all . . .
his schtick
his act
his guile
his performance
His troupe needed him . . .
He saved them once, actually more than once . . .
He remembered
instances
where they could have died
complete, final
deaths
suffocating, anguishing, tormented deaths
moment by moment
piece by piece
visceral
spiritual
deaths by angst
They were unable to move
he thought,
barely covered by
the flesh of dignity
picked at
chewed on
torn away in chunks
by a consumptive
omnipresent
beast
hungry for a
soul of its own . . .
I protected us, he reflected
I distracted the beast,
Showing flashes, shiny moments,
glimpses of what it wanted to see
I fooled the beast, he thought
It thought it was me
achieving
successful
entertaining
respected
liked . . .
That he knew for sure
Yet, he knew his curtain was making its way downward
The flesh
wasn’t flesh at all
but another disguise
a veil
He always thought of himself as valiant
a knight in shining armor
But the armor became suffocating
sucking the breath
out of the troup
rendering it something that it was not . . .
And so it goes . . .
The death of the performer
birthing
or better yet
resurrecting
a fragile being
not so eager
or deft
or persuasive
or beguiling
or pleasing
and definitely not entertaining
or popular . . .
but real . . .
unrecognizable,
feeling,
disturbing
and threatening . . .
but real . . .
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