I've lost my eyes and clearly see my ears speak of eternity--my fingers feel what my eyes can touch and my middle finger wants far too much, for though my body speaks only with tounge, my brain is good for everyone, and as I learn to sleep and dream I lose my interest in the old hand cream.
PEACE - Tristan
I am getting into some free shows on the weekend. Amon Tobin on Saturday and Bob Dylan on Sunday. I will enter as I have before, but know it as a false temple and dance to the rhythms of this passing moment. I will listen to Bob and speak when spoken to. I will talk to pretty girls and watch them try to lead me astray, but my mind has a voice and also a will and I know they are not ready for the pain I can show them and the joy that will come from that pain. I write in lacksense, but I can speak clearer if the questions come from personal persons, so if there is a moment that catches your wit--speak it.
I looked into Akido today, and am hoping to get into the classes soon. It is like reading what I want to write. I am also getting back into the sax lessons, and I signed up for that Katimavik program to travel and see Canada with a community of volunteers. Little girls do not understand what they ask of old men.
LOVE - Tristan
To sit the sleeping writer weeping finding clearer ways for creeping blessed as all the motions seeping underneath the paper door
I found a stale and somber maker cutting up the bits of razor paved pretender glass eyed baker lost and found for ever more
And lying in a cold womb raked and poked among the coals of snaked and seraphimed three-chord aggressor cunning from one limb to shore
To sip from supper's soothing waiter wounded underneath the greater grasp of salt and peppar shaker tumbled over fondued whore
A dog calls out for moonlit mothers most only deserve each other cringing in the golden gloves and hats worn only once before
And church bells sound to warn each other's angels arming under covers clouding judgment from one sweet white bottle to another's sore
before || after
