MOURNING BY THE HOUR, ANGELS SWEET, ANGELS SOUR, FOLLOWED BY ONE MILLION BRIGHT LIGHTS

So you wake up before dawn:

Not the girl, but the time of day,

and it's just all too heavy, the dark,

the weight of the week,

and sure, you can tell yourself,

"Oh, maybe I can just enjoy

the suspense

of knowing

what's about

to happen

next?"

And then you get the coffee loaded,

have that first smoke, and your spiritual advisor

opens the door, your little plastic chair

for a throne, huffing and puffing

the sad magic dragon,

and you say "Sure,

where else would I be?"

And the mystic fortune teller laughs

because at least she knows

it's going to be Okay

The day breaks.

You shake off the snakes.

The doctor who interrogated you

the day before. The bill collector.

The bomb about to go off on your TV.

And you linger, for just one moment,

telling yourself: "Fuck it, this what I do."

There is time for everything,

your old friend once said,

and what there is no time for,

there is no time for.

You go back at it, Jack,

doing it all again,

reeling in your tears

because you know she's out there,

maybe cold, maybe alone, dead,

or worse, and those were just

were your worse fears,

overblown

I don't mean to be morose ...

I'm just not comatose

Then all the faces across the land

start popping up, like grains

on some lengthy beach of sand,

the waves washing over you,

the brilliance of all of those

wanting to take a stand

The new day is here.

Good to be alive.

And off that coast,

I dive, the leap of faith,

the lingering love possible,

being just awe right

with this unified field

of friends

is this great sea of people

far out there

in facey space