Someone has to sing and it might as well be me. I twist my head off and put it in a tub. Rain falls on the head as it opens and closes my mouth. I guess you could say sometimes the journey visits you. The head, mine, sings I wasn’t satisfied with anything less than the heart. But the poor head—the heart is nowhere to be found. The head, mine, thinks of the heart walking barefoot in grass. And what orientation! The head sees Eastward. Perfectly. It sees that what happens in the blank sky is more than we can carry. He sings. He kicks his imaginary, remnant feet.
When I sing, occasionally, I’m expelled from the realm of the senses. This is when I know I’m calling for my life and yours.
Planet of the Blind 