We shall speak the truth,
without end,
for the honor of serving,
under the foot of all.

We loathe great bellies
and great words,
the obscene showiness of gold,
the poorly dealt cards of luck,
the thick smoke of incense
set before the powerful.

Now the land of the mighty is vile
and grovels in hatred like a dog,
barking far off,
nearby enduring the stick,
beyond the mire
pursuing paths of death.

With a song, in the dark we erect
tall dream walls
to protect us from the uproar.

At night the rustle
of many fountains comes:
we are closing the doors on fear.

•

Spectacles are the not the issue. We want more spectacles, not less. Through them our dreams make kindling for the conflagration of quantification.

Our spectacles come from our composite bodies and imaginations.They try to cut these from us. They do this because they have no dreams. They cannot read, see or hear as we understand reading, seeing or hearing. You do not need eyes or ears to read.

Come with me speaking now as if to nobody at all, come with me as we are all nobody, we are spirits going to stand outside the honeycombed windows of the mansion. We will squash our faces against these windows and frighten the occupants.

As we read through these windows, this a sad life for them. They live in fear, without a language to bring the unlike things of the world together. They play with flags and with invisible numbers, but these things mean nothing to them, as they mean nothing to us.They measure, but what are they measuring? They are measuring how long it could be before their houses and things are taken away.

It will not be long before their houses and things are taken away.

We are peasants and serfs, as our ancestors also were. We have our composite bodies and imaginations.We have had enough.

Fear is not the issue.With fear an expansiveness comes, a spreading cloud of possibility whose uncanny shadow moves over the land. Within this obscurity we find a clearness that is brighter than clarity. We can see them as they are, as we can see ourselves. We see ourselves are more than ourselves.

As in a dark screen. No stopwatch, but a lilac ferris wheel that always turns with the always-increasing numbers. Here there is no night, though many spirits are tapping their sighs into the wheel’s turning lights as skyscrapers’ shadows struggle to put on their tall coats and run out into the fields, where birds like sparks are flying out of the complicated bushes into the dayless air as there is no day here, though leaves still blow across the crossroads where crowds of children move stickly back and forth into the scudding foam of adulthood. This is the formless face of the beginning.

Press your faces into the glass as if it were the softest pillow. They can see us now. They are afraid of us. There are as many of us as leaves, as droplets of rain, as hailstones. Through us the fountains of the world to come will be symbols of the indefinable.