In every city, in every town, in every village, there lives someone who knows something you do not. A bubble, a boy, an opera - my revelations come to me in the strangest wrappings, and stranger bows. There is no "stuck" to inferior or superior, and no justification for middle ground, for mediocre, for common. Sitting in my seat, pressed against the table so that they must press against the wall, my mind is dime-store bounce on Escher stairs. You are smarter than Vincent. Vincent is smarter than me. But you make me hilarious. And you make me wanted. And mi otra lengua begs for muchacho swelter. To do so well here
while wanting to get away
must be the result of feeling good.
Not to feel stuck is new,
but the floor-air-floor way of life
makes me tired. --- If proud of a good deed, what happens to the "good?" If cognizant of karma, does it still count? The Dalai Lama and houses that say hello are not some of my remaining threads. | 
True
