Posts Tagged ‘truth’

Where have you been?
The mind races with possibilities
ripe with untrue juices
none the less savory and delectable
Spaces with prophecies
in the rear-view mirror can become
anything so long as they are closer than they appear.
Can I lie to you if it means that you will believe
something more true than
if I were honest?

Is that allowed?
Is the point of being honest
giving the right impression of events
or feeling guiltless in the fact
that you have successfully listed
every mundanity as it appeared
rather than as it was felt.

As a child I pissed myself
and in that moment Rome burned
on each of my cheeks.
I felt the ground rumble and dissipate
in an earth swallowing quake.
I knew that every pretension I had of being great
was a puddle beneath my shamed shoes.
Now is that true?
Is it?

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It occurred to me
on a beach in Fiji
that perhaps I think too much.
Through the crystal waters
I could see everything
magnified. Color. Shape.
Everything was clear.
A chance you don’t get
very often in Worcester.

But why is it this way?
Why does water do this?
Why the colors? Why the eye?
Why does the world
rotate and the light bend
to create this
beautiful lie.

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The obstacle I
don’t see.
Don’t hear.
It don’t do anything.
The obstacle I
The obstacle I
joyfully, proudly.
It don’t care
It don’t feel.
Not the obstacle I.
It exists to pad
changing forces
of sweeping earthquakes
called decision.
The obstacle I
makes sure you
don’t drown in
the boat you built
to keep afloat
in yourself.
But it don’t float
by itself.
Figure that out.

A truth that is stranger than any lie
a stranger to any truth is the Obstacle I.

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To Tell You The Truth

The mis-
take I make
is to summarize
anything. Everything.
Summary is dishonesty.
uses lies
to plant
more words
in the head
than in the ear.

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The Queen’s Last Edict

The Queen sits
on a stack of books.
Gray eyes scan,
Years of green looks
having stolen
their blue away.

Through thick glass
those aged seers
follow long royal fingers
as they pass
unclear words. Her
digits fear the end
of turning.

Her people are outside.
Terror in its infinite softness
forces them to choose.
They cry like children
under darkness.
Gray sky replacing
the days of sanguine blue.

She doesn’t want to be
their mother, or their sun
She is a symbol,
the image they want to take away,
and in her eyes
there is no comfort
nor any solace,
only what is right
and what is true.

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I have never felt a baby kick
I know only my mother tongue
I have never lost a loved one to tuberculosis
nor a nation to exile
nor my life to myself.

I have lost faith to philosophy
only to arrive at a new faith.
My generation has never been tyrannized
or oppressed – despite my contemporaries’ belief.
I don’t understand how a tree or stream
Is more eternal or beautiful than a woman’s body
though I know very well that a woman’s eye
loves a flower because she can see herself in it.

I lie to get honesty. I am silent because I wish
to echo. I think speech is a symbol, humans are images,
and humanity is a metaphor. I think people are foolish to fear
what they do not know – but I fear death.


I like the smell and feel of dirt,
old newspapers and books, basements and babies.
I read Plato like the Bible
and the Bible like a dialogue.
I talk to myself in mirrors.
Sometimes I lie. Usually I just make sounds
I don’t let anybody else hear.

I love women but don’t understand them.
Though I think if I did, I wouldn’t love them.
Why such graceful ghosts would ever attach themselves
to this nitty gritty world is beyond philosophy.
Why these pure patrons would bestow on envious nature
such honors when waterfalls and whistling winds
cross within them more perfectly is beyond this world.


I have written. Now I am empty.
Having removed myself and others.
Again to the trough of reality
with my sister and brothers –
A waterfall of shifting mirrors.
Fullness calls, emptiness cries.
I claw the nitty gritty to be near her –
I wield fables and lies.
She doesn’t mind my voodoo
she likes to smell and feel
babies and basements too –
She wields satin and steel.
I write, she cuts paper to the floor
creators and creations never more.

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The unfortunate truth for those who hide themselves behind ration relativism is that what they are really looking for is justification, for ethical orders, for a completely irrefutable fact amidst a sea of turmoil – they are looking for truth. Oh sure, like the sophist they can speak around this issue but they cannot hide forever. They use the metaphysical nature of words against it. They turn her and make her cut her own arm off. They say she is limited because she speaks above the reality of the senses and then timestamp her body with the word “philosophy”. The one-handed, ravaged, dirty language of man is no longer something within herself she is nothing higher than a whore being used by every self-defined genius who aims to be novel by undermining all previous assumptions. They push her around a circle of bloated, unshaven, brutal men each taking there turn at removing her garments; imagery, metaphor, meter, rhyme, symbolism, and finally the jewel of her navel: poetry. They condemn her by calling her a liar, and justifying every vicious act they perpetrate on her with envious and insidious logic. Her once mirror-like eyes are too dirty to reflect the ugly faces of the darkened madmen who now parade her naked body through the streets calling themselves by the names of forgotten deities.

A boy sees her from the windows of his family’s house. He blushes and weeps for shame. In the innocence of his childhood he still knows to avert his eyes. But does he know to fight back? He blindly screams out the window to the crowd but their chanting is too loud. They carry her past the boy who never sees her go and to the church where they force her to stare at her shadow.

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