In Puerto Vallarta, the streets often speak louder than words. A weeping clown on the Centro Bus, a homeless woman on the street. In their eyes, I saw pieces of myself. EZ
Painted Joy, Private Grief
I was born with a painted-on grin—
a trickster’s mask, stretched wide and thin.
Red nose, big bows, buttons in a row—
but the cruelest punchline was always the show.
I’m the tears of a clown, for crying out loud,
a jester in spotlight, fooling the crowd.
But don’t lean in, don’t pull back the frame—
this smile’s a disguise in a well-rehearsed game.
Step right up—come, take a peek,
watch me play a twisted game of hide and seek.
You see the joker, the pratfalls, the cheer…
but no one sees what’s hiding here.
I vanish in laughter, I spin, I perform,
I juggle the chaos, I dance through the storm.
Each stunt, each giggle, each fall to the floor—
a sleight-of-hand mask, concealing much more.
But what if, one night, I dropped the act?
What if I peeled the paint straight back?
Would you still laugh? Would you still stay?
Or would you turn as I fade away?
Hide and seek—wasn’t that the game?
I hide in the lights, in the stage, in the name.
Behind every gag, every dizzying ploy—
a bowtie that tightens, a choke in the joy.
Don’t look too close.
Because there’s a tremble behind the curtain’s edge,
a cracked reflection, a silent pledge.
A clown who falls, and you laugh on cue—
but the tears don’t dry when the show is through.
Seek—
but not too far.
Lest you glimpse the wreckage behind the star.
The hands that shake, the eyes gone dim,
the silence that swells when the spotlight thins.
This isn’t a trick.
It’s not a joke.
It’s not a grand exit beneath thunderous applause—
just a clown, undone, stripped of the cause.
No mask, no gags, no glitter or spin—
just the echo of laughter
and the fool within.
But the show must go on—
isn’t that right?
So I’ll smile when I’m breaking,
I’ll shine through the night.
You’ll cheer for the jest, you’ll chase the cheer,
but you’ll never see what’s hiding here.
Dancing Queen
I see her there
a woman wrapped in shadows,
her fire flickering,
but not yet gone.
She sits by the edge of the sidewalk,
the world rushing by,
and somehow
I know her.
Not her name,
but her ache.
Not her story,
but her song.
And in seeing her,
I see me there.
Not as I am now,
but as I once was
as I still am,
beneath it all.
I was a force once.
I remember the rhythm of the earth
beating through my soles
as I danced under streetlights,
their flicker my spotlight.
I lived bold,
vibrant,
and strong.
My tattoos told stories
maps of my victories,
my losses,
the sacred moments that shaped me.
They were my scripture,
my truth inked into skin.
I was a queen.
A goddess of movement.
Each step I took was a rebellion,
each turn a celebration of my being.
My spirit was untamed,
my laughter loud enough
to shake the stars.
But the years…
they’ve peeled away the layers.
My crown lies forgotten in the dust.
The world that once cheered for me
now looks away.
They don’t see me anymore.
Now, I lie on a bed
of pavement and patchwork hope.
The cracks in the sidewalk cradle me
their jagged edges
softer than the indifference of the world.
My tattoos have faded,
their colors washed out by time and sun,
but they still speak.
If only someone would listen.
Beside me
my one loyal companion,
a stray dog
with eyes that carry the weight of the universe.
Together,
we move through days
marked by the shuffle of footsteps
that rush past.
The world sees only my shell,
my brokenness.
They don’t see
the goddess
that still breathes within.
I am the Spirit of the She
untamed and unbroken
beneath the wear and tear.
My body might be fading,
but my spirit
refuses to dim.
I carry the ache
of the forgotten,
the discarded
but within me,
the ember still burns.
The world may turn away,
but I remember the dance.
Even now,
Beneath the broken sky,
The goddess in me sings-
I am still here.
A queen
wrapped in human skin
waiting for the world
to see me again.
