My alter-ego. Heâs an escape artist,
heâs only truly happy when heâs under arrest.
oh how he handsome, scheduled to hang to death
Heâs only truly happy at the precipice.
Heâs like a mirror. He sticks into our ears
a stethoscope to the chest of the vacant years.
I canât escape the chair, Iâm etherized with fear
that my only talent is in hanging here.
but then itâs
Hey boy, Iâve got your man heâs right here
putty in my hands
ice cream and sweets,
coming in the sheets
he got no excuse to leave.
and in the real world, an intertidal cave,
I ride a desk chair waiting for a tidal wave
I feel like dancing, but that is miles away
Iâm feeling hard and hollow like paper mache.
My alter ego. Heâs in a jailerâs cage
he sits and waits for the devil to abet his escape.
Iâm sorry pastor, I canât be pasteurized.
All of the bibles in the world for a metal file.
At every clock strike, he hears the jailerâs keys
and the doubt starts to sprout til heâs on his knees.
but he is singing, when the night is black
âAll I am is whatever Iâm aiming atâ
and he remembers like itâs his motherâs call
to feel his hand find a grip at the top of the wall.
I want to feel it, I want to feel the fire
of the leftover sun on the roofing tiles.