People as frauds.
The Catcher in the Rye phonies prance the surface.
And I put on a costume or two. The Stranger. Caufield. K. Z. The artist. Baby Tuckoo.
Trying to get at something but failing every day.
Ah to quest and find yourself looking right back down at your own shoes. Home again.
Denizen of the silly brain.
Would you trade nothing for everything?
Outside of the feeding, housing crowd,
only those involved in hopeless, useless, absurd art, words and music are doing any good.
It’s a wondrous life.
That should be enough.
Two stunning women at the park with nutty little dogs.
Snails across the morning grass.
A false sense of freedom on parade.
Who are these characters?
Why do they spout the lines they choose?
Give me something to work with, please.
Ah – they’re geniuses.
I’m the special ed one.
The bell tolls for you. Your skull is waiting to dry up, scorched by the sun.
Finding ways to amuse the prison guards.
Dance, pull the hand of Maya and spin her across the floor.
Push buttons. Uncover holes. Turn rocks. See if a drain really drains to anywhere.
Look for the seams and seems.