The man standing on the corner in a clown costume,

the modern clown of the border streets.

Look how crazy he is,

his make up, his colorful wigs.

He is not exaggerating his footwear,

nor his simple clothing.

The audience waiting at the red light

is entertained at a distance.

The modern clown of the border streets,

let me ask, where is your circus?

Is it there on the sidewalks, your varieté show?

Do cars and trucks substitute the elephants?

I wonder if you are sad behind that smile.

“What made you be a clown?” I asked,

you said, “What made you be a poet?”

I guess we are both doing the same, are we fools

whose days and tasks become extraordinary?

The comedy show of our words and actions,

why don’t you come closer again,

so I can give U some change

in return for your foolishness.

Money is for the habitual fools,

I have it, now it’s yours.

Who is the real comical idiot,

you, he in the oval, or me overall?

You won’t agree that the clown who is

dressed in tattered servants’ garb

who represents The People

and who works for the 99%

comes from the lower class, right?

Do not tell me that you eat at McDonalds

just because you are a clown.

You could easily be a transit police,

directing the traffic as an orchestra.

Where are your tears, dear clown when you

walk a tightrope from here to your home?

Being a border clown is the interlude between

standing alive in the middle of the street,

the beginning of every morning

and the end of them.

I love your tricks and stunt props,

the world needs them.

Religion and magic,

the world needs them.

The performers and the believers.

You are always running around in the avenues

trying to make us laugh.

Thus, making us happy for a second.

You are the anthropomorphisation of Reynard the Fox.

You are the trickster who disobeys the rules.

Oh! I remember once cycling on Ave. Gómez Morín in Juárez

pasting red round paper on the noses

of political campaigners in photographs.

You clowns and we poets are the poorest people,

who have lost everything, in the world,

who tolerate winters and hot summers,

our gift is to laugh loud to all those things.

When we were dirty and thirsty

in the desert of economy

like wild animals  jumping the white man’s

fence and running down on the highways of modernity,

when we were dry and hungry

and the government pursued us

to our own shadow, watching us cry and die.

Only those clowns and poets who like the streets

more than their homes,

being hidden with makeup and poems in public,

they are the closest to people.

The clown and the poet are visions

that come from the summer branches.

The rain of pain in the world,

the sadness,

is gone after the clowns and poets

perform in the storm.

We are the hunting spirits of mankind,

We, the sacred clowns and poets.






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