Fair

The sounds of a carnival: bells whistling from the booths of games,
kernels popping and music blaring
the familiar do doot do do do do doot do of a carousel
along with mother’s screaming young names
as if the magic of a playground would release the casted spell
on the childrens’ smiles.

The excitement of a carnival: cotton candy cavities on a stick
and young love brewing on a ferris wheels’ basket
and sought-after gorilla toys
three times the size of a 7 year-old
with nothing else inside our eyes but pure joy.
Maybe it’s the flashing lights, or the smell of carnival food,
but we all felt good. Lifted. Innocent.

The nostalgia of a carnival: remember when our best friends only wanted to compete for the first water-popped balloon
instead of competing for cherries-popped and used condoms
and the dizzy feeling came from the loops of the roller coaster
instead of the anguish from loopholes in the form of beers on coasters
and how carnival games were the lowest form of a scam
with the attendants being the only ones that ever cheated, lied, and stole from you.

I will never get over the aesthetic pleasures of a carnival.
It’s hectic and wild and exhilarating and beautiful, and beautiful, and beautiful.
Like life.

But life is not a carnival; life is not a fair.
Life is not fair.