The Adirondack Review
Real Clowns

"Those aren't real clowns, they're human beings."
-- Henry, age 5, watching a parade

abide in cooperative, balloon-intensive villages
located between circus & tent, and catty-corner
to helium.  They relish hot dogs.  Their HMOs
provide full podiatric. Real clowns don't pedal
tiny trikes to get cheap laughs, never commute
on elephants to parade jobs as moped cowboys.
A clown in any parade is as fake as Flag Day,
as face-paint.  Real clowns are not Boy Scout
leaders but, even after gunpowder/cannon, can
navigate their bumbling way to the North Pole
without a compass then shoot the magical shit
w/ elves. Ruffles, nosegays genuinely become
them; they do not poop.  Real clowns really do
sport six-inch smiles (thru their tears) for real
reasons involving, all too often, the unspeakable
infidelity of midgets.

Mitchell Metz







The St. Lawrence Book Award for a first collection of short stories or poems
The St. Lawrence Book Award for a first collection of short stories or poems
The St. Lawrence Book Award for a first collection of short stories or poemsThe St. Lawrence Book Award for a first collection of short stories or poemsThe St. Lawrence Book Award for a first collection of short stories or poems
The St. Lawrence Book Award for a first collection of short stories or poems
MITCHELL METZ continues not to acquire acquired tastes. He wonders if this is a bad thing.  His work has appeared or is forthcoming all over the place -- most recently in Fugue, Whiskey Island, Quercus Review, and The Pedestal Magazine.  He is a two-time Pushcart nominee.  This is his third appearance in TAR.