Cheap imitations, fulfilling the fix for motion.
Cries from the cheap-seats,
Beckoning and egging the passion paralyzed mimic,
“Dance like you mean it. We paid for this,
With time and trade, and a communal toil” erupts from them.
Jarring vibrations meant to stir,
Fall out hardened-not-deafened ears.
The perceptive clown watches from his twirling periscope,
Asleep through the silent shouting of subpoenas,
Broadcast from vehemence-colored orbs.
The actor hits his mark set before him,
Met with eruptive dissonance:
Joy manifested as validation,
Butting up against the peculiar quiet that looks outward,
Holding the painted man’s throat silent.
Justice dispensed, the crowd dissipates,
Pulled away by the magnetism of their anchored lives,
While the silent one removes his red gloves,
Before returning to the black-taped X on the stage floor: