Definition Truth

v.t.  1.  subjective;

constant changing 2. human

abstraction~abstraksie~

التجريد

αφαίρεση

абстракция

What Most People Don’t Read

To be a living footnote

in other’s lives is to feel loneliness

beyond description.  You’re there

 

as an annotation to the goings on

around you, but like most fine print

 

it’s often skipped over and not even noticed.

By Men, Truth Is…

Always, it has been odd

to see the world with open

 

eyes.  Terror is

omnipotent.  With tremoring

 

waves of an unnamed emotion

I know of.  It’s a knowing we are liars

 

in one form or another.  Death is a shroud

coming faster than you think

 

to us all.  Words, kind gestures, loving

eyes which offered to me solace

 

in times of few.  Sometimes you should be

inconsolable when you can see like a gawd

 

damned medium.  There is nothing left

but Armageddon. I’mma take up my sword

 

so I can stab everyone in the eyes with the truth.

Beautiful Child

His name is Lalieth and he’s afraid

to eat vegetables.  He comes from

 

the Himalayas, and I know nothing of his

culture, but I know what mine is doing

 

to him.  At school, he tries to make friends

then is suspended for sharing

 

the chewing bark his father gave

him.  Because he was so traumatized by

 

camp living, he is drugged with the antipsychotic

Risperdal by doctors who try to control his 12 year-

 

old fits of angst, anger, pain, but mostly fear.  He’s a child

who knows eating anything from polluted earth

 

will make you sick. Whose withdrawn ways of showing

me he trusts me are all evident in that

 

indescribably gorgeous child’s face.

Too Simple to See

Plenty has been taken from me

by Man.  As you know, it takes much

 

more than just simply existing for me

to give anything to anyone.  I rarely have

 

anything, other than the dying

animal I’m tied to, to offer any

 

solace even through winter

solstice. You know this ecliptic

 

called home is the farthest from

the Equator.  At least there isn’t six

 

months of darkness here.  I keep myself

budded up and bundled in layers of frocks

 

to keep my diminishing flesh safe

from the elements, the harsh wind.

 

You were told before, unless my soul

becomes overwrought with empathy, only

 

then my hair engulfs my face as corn silk and yellow

pedals falling so delicately in the bowl

 

made for roses.  You know as well as I do, the only

time to witness beauty it is always

 

among the ones whose heads

have been hacked off or their buds

 

snapped away and given as tokens

of Love.  A dying thing becomes

 

the gesture of Love.

Sacrament of Dismemberment

All life is forward, you will see

I have already lost

 

my hands to the gnarly

knuckles. The rough hands

 

that aren’t afraid

to labor what most men say

 

she can’t are still

attached to my arms.  I know

 

what fate these fingers face, so I type

as long as they let me.  Thank gawd

 

because the strength of my eyes hath

failed like staring into the Shroud

 

of Turin.

Radiation of Sound

This word Radiant keeps being

repeated. I doubt

 

the adjective.  Language is not

science.  At this moment, words fail

 

to accurately modify the Object

grammatically, except in Science.  Of my

 

energy, as Radiant as you say it is, it claims

to be nothing more than exhausted.  Depleted.

 

Drained of every discreet

packet of photons.  The electromagnetic

 

waves are gravity keeping me on my knees

as to pray.  I do pray.  Not to any Idol or God,

 

but just so I can hear the sound of the Words radiate

from my bruised knees to the top of my skull (with all

 

its pits and divots from banging my head). Just words,

words, words will every inhalation and expel of oxygen molecules.

Original Mode of Staging

I know the stage.  I know

the verses.  I know

 

he was wrong.  Maybe, I am

like that woman whose last

 

name is forbidden to be spoken

in the Theatre?  Tragic flaws are usually

 

attributed to the male characters, even if they are

supposed to be women.  The men, including the old

 

Bard, have always made of me whore without

ever given the chance to be the Virgin.  Women

 

were never even given a chance to ask questions

as Hamlet did.  Oh yes, you can say things

 

have changed and woman don the stage from one

Meridian to another, but I can tell you for certain

 

that is all just an illusion of the stage.  I am only worth

what’s in my pocket, and I don’t have any.