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
