Eyes Tired

Deep calling out to deep.

Much ambition has died. Just a man of sorrows--walking "numb"er-like. Feeling powerless and humorous. Sad and compassionate.

Lost to debates, agendas, and such. Plate washing. Dish cleaning. Love making.

Like the lost years of Christ--I'm doing my version of carpentry. No great interest in my own thoughts. Wish I could write like Anthony Keidis. Wish I spoke and studied in another language, would make English so much more fluid. Easier when out of the frame.

Todo y nada.
Nacio una estrella.

Absolute relatedness. Metaphors of the other side, of the relative, of division, separation, touch, death, dirt, caves, darkness.

The intensity of Vancouver is gone. It served a purpose. A porpoise. Gone now. Maybe forever. No desire to grab it, no desire to be lazy and block it either.

Nothing even to write. Words drop out. Hearts open, throat gapes and vibrates.

I'm not very bright. I struggle to ar-ti-cu-late. Head empty like tire. self-enclosed, nothing inside.