Hurricane 1997

In the year of the hurricane
I was ill, I was bruised, I was broke
I dragged myself down Mile End Road
As thin as a bicycle wheel spoke

I flapped in the wind like a moth-eaten curtain from a tree
That stood at the end of the street in the hurricane that freed itself
from my own disquiet soul
from my own empty heart

in the year of the hurricane
It was as if my own life escaped from me
Had wound itself up like a spring
And was released across the country
And flew into a rage across a sick world

wake up and smell the humans

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