I SOMETIMES WANT TO POKE MY HEAD OUT in front of the scrim and tell all of them there's nothing to covet.
"Pssst. Kids! This is a big joke. And it's on you. But it's on me too. I am a prisoner in a fortune cookie factory. Help!"
I kneel down on the edge of the stage where I can see the metal joints and planking that make up the small landscape of our majesty. They laugh and think I'm a gas . . . "Aw! Keith! Let me come backstage and do some of your drugs!"
Maybe that's the way to get it out. Little by little, get ten cats back there a night to see what it's really like: bad platters of cold food, oily rags scattered about without apparent design, gawkers and goofballs, fatigue and harsh florescence.