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April 26, 7:23 AM

On April 25, 1986, I decided to start keeping any poetry I wrote in a standard yellow folder. I wanted it to be something I could keep together through the years and look over from time to time. I was 18 then and I'm glad I had the foresight then to do just that. To reward that clever kid, I'll put some of his better stuff from that collection right here.

This one is simply an observation I made while waiting to go to a history competition at UNT in Denton, Texas.

Floating cities overhead
Northbound, bent on some unspoken aim.
They are machines, they are living.
Each one performing a similar function,
Yet each one an individual.
Headphones on my ears,
Bugs Henderson in my head.
Sandals flopping on my feet.
Grass' scent is everywhere
Birds still heard, despite the guitars
Four friends nearby, waiting, planning.
We, too, are northward bound,
Our aim, our plan is also unspoken to the world.
Yet, we are not machines.
We, humans, are all living, all thinking,
We choose our own function.
Bird flying higher, higher, farther, farther,
Then back and a little far, resting on a telephone wire.
He is not northward bound, as we are,
As we get into machines and become as the
Floating cities overhead.