The man of a thousand faces   sits down at the table   eats a small lump of sugar   and smiles at the moon like he knows her   And begins his quiet ascension   without anyone’s sturdy instruction   to a place that no religion   has found a path to, or a likeness   His words are quiet like stains are   on a tablecloth washed in the river   Stains that are trying to cover   for each other   or at least blend in with the pattern   Good is better than perfect   scrub till your fingers are bleeding   and I’m crying for things that   I tell others to do without crying   He used to go to his favorite bookstores   and rip out his favorite pages   and stuff ‘em into his breast pockets   and the moon, to him, was a stranger   Now he sits down at the table   right next to the window   and begins his quiet ascension   without anyone’s sturdy instruction   to a place that no religion   has found a path to or a likeness   and he eats a small lump of sugar   and smiles at the moon like he knows her...