February 4, 1999


Not at the beach

Too many hands
My butt is sore from all those
slappings of reality that don't sink in
Happy in own surreal dream
And wanting it to stay just like it aint.

Looking harder
Looking out for number two
Holding on to the precious soul
Who knows what my name is

Incoming tide
stand on the beach that once was
Now little more than a sand box

Hoping I can remember how
Taking a deep breath, just in case
Standing on my tiptoes