The faces on the wall tell me beautiful lies,
lies truer than the now;
some lie better than others
some I relate to
And some faces have no face at all
No bodies of flesh or blood
Just a procession of
doctors of words and phrases
runaway Frenchman (or boy) who waltzes into
arms of Pharaohs and
eludes the Apostles with a red albino
who was a
Some faces are drawn with pencil
(like the Pharaoh loving Frenchy)
or the one and only Dorian Gray who stares at me with
one bight blue eye and wears a collar branded with
name and impressive credentials.
And now I am one of those faces on the wall
A fresh face amid people I admire
And who only speak when I want them to.
**Poem by Jon Vreeland
**The picture I took at the Book Den in Santa Barbara Ca.