Self-confessional

I used to lay out on the lawn,
feeling the prick off the sheared-off grass on my feet that stuck out
beyond the edge of my blanket,
reading Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs,
cover propped up so others could see what I was reading,
arms going numb from the effort.
I read their works with a mixture of
serious engagement and bored amusement.
I liked their honesty,
but it’s masked,
you can’t take them at face value;
their confessions are staged;
they are themselves an art.

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