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I wrote this a couple of years ago, when I was alone in a hotel room at Christmas time.

Are you getting enough oxygen?
You might as well take mine
I'm not using it for living
I can never find the time

But I'm not really being honest
I started out with time to spare
But I never spent it living
I could never find the air

I guess I'm not making sense
I'm only wasting all these words
I use them up like time and oxygen
They're rarely ever heard

If the world's so big why can't I see it?
Maybe I should raise my eyes
All I see is rain on pavement
And the street light makes it shine

Think about the things in stories
Like the red sunset clich├ęs
I was looking out the window
Looks like my oxygen is grey

Giving up on making sense
The only thing that's true
Potential wasted just like oxygen
And nothing left to do

Unless I get the hang of breathing
I never got the hang of breathing
Later on I will try breathing


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When I See It

I don’t believe in time.
There's much more world left;
So much more to learn,
And I don’t believe in time.
I believe in shadow birds flying
Through the green of mown grass
Under the squint-bright sun;
An ocean dappled with clouds
And the white sails of small boats
Crossing my shoulder;
A thousand dynamic blooms
That I can’t name, speaking
With voices of children
And laughing as they pass;
The reassuring chatter
Of great wooden beasts
That sermonize patience
And continuity.
But I don’t believe in time
Or the limits it implies.
I don’t believe in the failure
Of the manifest soul.
I don’t believe death will result
From the cessation of habits
That feed my blood,
Because I won't believe
In a future nothingness
That I can’t see from here.

Dawn in an Hour

Dawn is in an hour;
in a night.
A light on the long street
on the grey river,
on a long walk of broken clays.
It takes only a streetlight
to bare the sighs,
the yawn of dark alleys,
of quiet honesty;
the great peace
of telling without cause,
without want.
The arm stretches
and guides the body;
the body doubles its warmth.
Laughter snaps
against brick and glass,
and the eyes combine;
heart combines with heart.
And dawn is in the hour,
in the night.


I think, sometimes,
that I can do anything,
but that can change on the way
to the elevator.

I prepare for outside.
Rain makes it easier,
bends my eye to the ground,
to the architecture;
turns everything to gold.
The new gravity holds me,
turns the voices into hums,
the walkers into clouds.

But outside my door,
there are voices already,
breaking through planks of wood
that should mean security,
and I’m in their path;
every word an arrow
tipped with poison.

They’re only voices.
They are not harsh;
they do not threaten.
They’re not aimed at me
at all. Yet I suspect,
hidden from me,
there are faces attached.