by Steve Rodriguez
Someone whispers, the circus is in town. A dark
caravan is seen parading down the road. We might expect
to see trained lions, and the trapeze artist;
death-defiers treading a tightrope balanced high above.
Instead, we are treated to a disappearing act. Sheer scale of magic
catches everyone by surprise. Scary clowns, wearing olive drab
outfits – complete with black masks, helmets, ICE cool military swag—
pour out of their armored vehicles. Under a big top canopy
of blue coastal skies, they form three-ring spectacles
in front of restaurants, Home Depot lots, and apartment complexes.
Resembling Death Star troopers arriving far too late
for this year’s Comic Con, they begin disappearing humans
like strong-armed, Kevlar-vested magicians shoving rabbits
in and out of a top hat. Citizens observe the action.
Poof! Another body vanishes into the transfer portal.
What did these people ever do, a bystander protests?
Murders and rapists, one costumed joker responds, adding
gang member as an afterthought. Nothing slick about
these clowns-slash-illusionists. No smooth sleight of hand.
More like a fight card of UFC brawlers employing muscle
and well-rehearsed intimidating stares that peek out
from above the masks. We in the crowd feel helpless,
unable to stop this performance gone horribly awry,
all the while insisting the ringmaster answer for his debacle.
From a distance, however, indeed going all the way back
to Pennsylvania Avenue, the orange impresario can be heard hawking,
“Step right up and observe the greatest show on earth”
as another human—heart beating like a rabbit—
magically evaporates into thin coastal air.
caravan is seen parading down the road. We might expect
to see trained lions, and the trapeze artist;
death-defiers treading a tightrope balanced high above.
Instead, we are treated to a disappearing act. Sheer scale of magic
catches everyone by surprise. Scary clowns, wearing olive drab
outfits – complete with black masks, helmets, ICE cool military swag—
pour out of their armored vehicles. Under a big top canopy
of blue coastal skies, they form three-ring spectacles
in front of restaurants, Home Depot lots, and apartment complexes.
Resembling Death Star troopers arriving far too late
for this year’s Comic Con, they begin disappearing humans
like strong-armed, Kevlar-vested magicians shoving rabbits
in and out of a top hat. Citizens observe the action.
Poof! Another body vanishes into the transfer portal.
What did these people ever do, a bystander protests?
Murders and rapists, one costumed joker responds, adding
gang member as an afterthought. Nothing slick about
these clowns-slash-illusionists. No smooth sleight of hand.
More like a fight card of UFC brawlers employing muscle
and well-rehearsed intimidating stares that peek out
from above the masks. We in the crowd feel helpless,
unable to stop this performance gone horribly awry,
all the while insisting the ringmaster answer for his debacle.
From a distance, however, indeed going all the way back
to Pennsylvania Avenue, the orange impresario can be heard hawking,
“Step right up and observe the greatest show on earth”
as another human—heart beating like a rabbit—
magically evaporates into thin coastal air.
Author’s Gloss:
Circus—
1. a travelling company of acrobats, clowns, and other entertainers which gives performances, typically in a large tent, in a series of different places.
2. a public scene of frenetic, noisy, or confused activity.
1. a travelling company of acrobats, clowns, and other entertainers which gives performances, typically in a large tent, in a series of different places.
2. a public scene of frenetic, noisy, or confused activity.
Steve Rodriguez is a retired U.S. Marine Corps officer and a retired high school English teacher. He resides in San Diego, CA. His poetry has recently appeared in several local anthologies, as well as The New Verse News and Beatnik Cowboy. One of his poems was recognized at the 2025 National Baseball Poetry Festival.
