pointless.

there a face in the woods above a fire; and hes smiling or grinning and hes older and he looks like he knows, but when i look all i see is that he looks like he knows and he must know the looks; and so hes making the look. and if hes making the look, he must not really know. sure hes confident in his drawl as he roasts rabbit on thick and thin, and he will tell you where the fire burns and how to wear the fire like a blanket and which foot to leave uncovered. and much of what he says is the truth. but why does he say it at all, why does he say it all.

in the anonymous man there is a myth of sadness that fills the chambers with rich mulberry wine. sometimes its the wood that cries out as it gets saturated with the notion of blind genius, and the creaks that fill auburn night have a glass chime within, solidifying in beams yet fragile to the touch as spun sugar.

or this man on the couch: bag filled with all the goods needed, and quiet when he should be but will fight for the cause as it emerges; and his eye shines just too metallic in his triumph. and when the sorcerer twists her ankle just off, when she missteps over the lines of dust and the quiet breeze of her error allows a fine filament to escape the sacred circle, then he catches it there too and in a voice just loud enough for the trees to hear he fixes the spell and sits down again silent yet content wiith his mastery.

should this knowledge be kept to the one, do i beleieve that the solitary soul is more than the illusion of the mind struggling against its own insignifigance, or do i see this private collection of electricity as the fundamental truth whose challenge fries doubt and unity like eggs on sidewalks, on dashboards, on marble counters near foam. these are the first questions; and yet is the second questions that plague me tonight, candle near plant leaf, ice cream over wine. the second questions, once the soul is distinguished and separated, the second quetsions of what to do now. and should she sing for herself or for the singers around her or for the sky above, or is there a difference.

and do i wear this cloth for you. and do i dare to turn my face from the mirror, and do i dare to sing alone, and do i dare to turn from the door, do i keep my recipies under my cape where only the sly dragonfly on wind may find it.

is the god in the garden built in the mind alone, or must when be the truth, this when that leaves, so one must move great stones, great heaps of dirt and grass, flowers blooming in designs to the will of the one, so that all may see. must one sing funny fork songs for the approving crowd in the kitchen, or is the beard too long.