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The Clown for Arthur Hamilton Smith There, between Leakey's yellow fingernails, was the first skull becoming human. And the angels, who could use gold paint, were also pedigreed in their time. Whatever the order of beings, the clown was roped off from our gods and our families. Barren, a visitor of removable brains, there under his blindingly pale face (geisha layers—and yet nothing is womanly about thisBubba) shines a self to match, a blue and burning spotlight determined to reach our gods and our families. Sixtychildren are holding their breath. He is as excited asfleas. He falls with a bounce, a fish in his pocket clangs, and he's somehow still dapper, the skinning absorbed by gloves, and the laughter directed at every kenspeckle part of him stored in the fake shirrs of fat. To undo the many-gored suit and the ruche, he surrenders at home, feeling treatied a bit short of his won city. He keeps on the face. Only turns off the light. The mirror doubles the gleams. The first time, he washed his face too soon, his eyes wouldn't clear, he sawstreaks. His friends saw them too, real as ghosts, white Tom Sawyer swipes, a superficialjob of it. 13 14 / ONE: PORTRAYALS So for now he sits down, t-shirt and gardenia face, a corsage on a chair. Outside, the old two-storeys look from night-lamped features. No matter how many heads sleep inside,restless parties flirt in and out of its mouth, a house's eyes are lit in a stardom bigger and more solitary than any human face. His eyes shuttle then, eyes within eyes. He wiggles his mouth, a working model of his greater smile. Somewhere are nostrils, verysmall, how little air this man beneath inflates on! And so curious does he become at last he will bow into the soap. ...


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MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
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