Street Song - Joan Brady

My name is Scum. I’m a clown – an urban clown - one of those guys who performs on street corners. Three red balls juggling way up above the gray –people going by so fast they don’t even have time to see each other – but they see me –

Black lined eyes - red triangles on white cheeks - a wig – with hair straight up.

No Barnum & Bailey here – no Bozo – no Howdy Doody – no Charlie McCarthy – no Big Top. I am the part that exists between the cracks – the part that spills out –the undercurrent. Toss a dollar in the pail – quarter’s not enough – can’t even buy you a cup of coffee. On Saturdays, I eat fire.

Where am I going? What do I wish? 

I am the solitary dance – the self-turned inside out – the dark side of the moon – the whispering voice no one else hears. I am flesh. I am blood. I am what I never was and I’m never going back to Kansas because homesick isn’t – and I never was – never was.

They didn’t hurt me – those people – parents – they said they were called parents – but they never saw me either. 

My name? When? Then? What was I called? 

I was called “Responsibility”. I was the reason they “never could”. So many ‘never coulds’. When I left – we all agreed it was the right decision.

Scum is what I am. It is my reality. It is the sound of the wind blowing through skyscraper canyons – streetcars rolling by on tracks – fire engines – foghorns – a stray dog barking at two a.m.

I sing. I dance. I juggle. I walk on my hands – and – on Saturdays – I eat fire.

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