My own truth


is our own language

we give it whatever alphabet we like

whatever the accent

whatever the intonation

whatever the syllabic reprisal

and we blame it all on our sensibilities

tormenting it

moulding it

embracing the vicissitudes of untruth

and guile

and disguising it as our own

opinion, ideology, way of life, idiosyncrasy

virulent reactions

to the dreadful, drab human creations.

She, like many others

was susceptible to such truths

and believed she could write

as well as she could fuck

she, like many others

who are pepped up to believe

that life, like a fool’s errand

is a pursuit of one’s dreams

and no matter, how foolish the dream

it must be pursued

without caution and with a

sufficient amount of insanity

she wrote 5-7-5 haikus

styled after Basho

about bird babies

and mountains

subjects suffering from

limited profundity and a commonness of vision

we would often get drunk and

talk about spiritually “woke” people

on the mountains

sampling weed on the daily

and crooning to chants of Hare Krishna, Hare Rama!

yet she, like fake news, political opinions

and religion

was my own truth

her existence so much the better

her company more desirable

than that of fools

self-taught or university educated

writing poems about socialism

and feminist struggles

with pride in their make believe pain

and equally untrue truths

she wasn’t an intellectual

she wasn’t really the best conversationalist

maybe not that beautiful either

but all the ether in the world

and all the metaphors

stood watching

when she unzipped her dress

and talked about flying to Spain

and haiku-ing Mustangs

for a living

those tiny 5-7-5s perhaps

held more purpose

than the lifelong contemplations

of cynics and stuffy old men

with sagging chins

and arthritis

truth, this great whore

for once was my own

in the flesh, and in a beautiful crimson lingerie

reading Dylan Thomas

and rubbing her feet

on mine.



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