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