SMILEY THE CLOWNSmiley The Clown sits atop his yellowed trailer surrounded by the many tents of the Big-Top and gazes long and hard into the cold October night, barely listening to the shrieks that fly like shadows in the night, or to the tortured giggles that emerge from the cages.
He feels fingers of wind ruffling his loose clothes, fingers that swirl in and out of the whorls of his clothing – revolving, sliding, touching – fingers that move around curve of spine, that dance with nimble fingers along thighs and buttocks, these oh so delicate whorls of wind that travel in short mincing steps down legs to tease the shriveled pocket of his scrotum.
His wide-open, painted-on grin splits his face into a long horizontal line from ear to ear, a grin that now resembles an immense sad gash wher
