OH THE MUSCULATURE
OF NO WEALTH
The carnival guy is bumming a cigarette, again, from
the last person on earth I'd think would give. His
jeans are greased up enough to - I bet - having
been worn fifteen days in a row. He's a mover,
a slider, a dude on the move. This is the new
modern era, none of this matters.
-
I saw him once on the slide trombone - he actually
plays pretty good. His Joe Egg carnival bunch was
up from Biloxi - they travel the good weather months
through these more northern states, setting up their
little sites in lots of little towns, along highways, all
'Route Nothing from here to there.' That's the way
he put it to me me last year. Oh yes, I see his bunch
each June, there's maybe forty people. Riding in
trucks and some rundown cars, pulling equipment,
the tilt-a-whirl and the whip, any sort of stupid ride
like those, the barker's and the ticket boots. A few
tractor trailers follow them, maybe next day - setting
up and breaking down, from and to each place, the
really big stuff. It all somehow works.
-
They live and camp together - tents and vans and cars.
No one cares, sleeping around, screwing whoever they can,
seeing faces they saw last year. A gypsy life, for sure; yet,
I know they'd steal you blind if and when they could.
The cops just say, 'Watch it, there's Carnies in town.'
Yeah, 'Watch it, there's Carnies in town.'
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