Arthur Fox

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His eyes were always bigger than his head,

Dreams swirled,

Interrupted reality.

All he had to do was look.

Like there, squeezed between two chairs,

A dusty cliff-face, a love lost cowboy, crisp felt hat, worn pitol butt.

Or there,

An alcoholic civil rights activist.

The dark tentacles of addiction scrabbling to pull her down.

That was the problem with his eyes.

What was out there was far more interesting than what he held within.

And the others couldn't see what he saw.
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