Escape Artist

My alter-ego
He’s an escape artist
He’s only truly happy when he’s under arrest
Oh how he handsome, scheduled to hang to death
He’s only truly happy at the precipice

He’s like a mirror
He sticks into our ears
A stethoscope to the chest of the vacant years
I can’t escape the chair, I’m etherized with fear
That my only talent is in hanging here

But then it’s
Hey boy, I’ve got your man he’s 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
I’m feeling hard and hollow like paper mache

My alter ego. He’s in a jailer’s cage
He sits and waits for the devil to abet his escape
I’m sorry pastor, I can’t be pasteurized
All of the bibles in the world for a metal file

At every clock strike, he hears the jailer’s keys
And the doubt starts to sprout til he’s on his knees
But he is singing, when the night is black
“All I am is whatever I’m aiming at”
And he remembers like it’s his mother’s call
To feel his hand find a grip at the top of the wall
And I want to feel it, I want to feel the fire
Of the leftover sun on the roofing tiles