CatcherInTheWry

CatcherInTheWry

I took mye mitt into the wilderness the empty lot had grown the weed were over my head and gone from everyone eye played alone. The game was mine one batt two balls. The smell of weed is strong in empty grown up lots near home. Never mind. The further out in the field eye got away the weed is gone the near decay is summer come. Long ago in a place so far away the end is the new beginning in place of home no where to hang no where to roman road away the wilderness near houses beckons me today. “Life is a game, boy a game iff played alone you loser you become. Life is a game that one plays according to the rules of otheres.”
“Yes, sir. I know it is. I know it.”
Game, boy my animal is a donkey you knoe an ass. Some game, boy. Iff you get on the side where all the hot-shots are then a stupid hot-shot you become, then it’s a game, all right—I’ll admit that. But if you get on the other side, where there aren’t any hot-shots, and you alone are a loser then then what’s a game about it? Nothing. No game. 

The pitcher in the rye is the winner then the Catcher in the rye is only the loser then then what differance can life make to the game then, alone you are a boy, it is only a game then then you finally become a man a loser then. Gone from everyone. Leave me alone.