The artists of my youth are falling
like glass bottles in a carny's unfair game,
stacked precariously in a cluster pyramid,
being taken down one by one by a fast pitch ball
thrown by an unseen hand
If they're falling or ascending
depends on where you're seated
Where they are going nobody knows
...
Perhaps they'll meet
in that far-off and infinitely close land
Where the wild things are
and you don't have to fight for your right to party.
RIP MCA and Maurice Sendak
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