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for Christine Dolnich
Only truth can make a liar
and only liars sing the truth.
All the mouths truth keeps in hire
delight in truth's sweeping certainty.
I love my truths as the wife beater loves his women.
Eloquent truth blinds whole armies with blonde stuff.
Blonde truth scalpels above the skull of a screaming ape
in stainless light laboratories.
Stainless truth is F.D.S., the mahogany jaw of Von Braun
and the frowning sales of insurance.
Frowning truth is a body bag blind to the wind.
Body bag truth is stuffed with the dried-out dreams
of watery boyhoods.
Poetry truth sings beyond the skull and knows its lie
aint true is magic and falls
from the reptilian womb of a heavenly turtle;
lie, lie, lie like little web‑footed brides
scurrying for the ocean.
True birds swipe from the sky
snacking up each frightened lie.
Delicious heart and liver lies swallowed whole!
Priestly truth is a house with windows and gangster guns.
Surrounded by seeker priests with bullhorn throats
the illusive truth mobster bursts through the door
blasting bolts of maddening laughter.
He lams it to a nearby refinery and climbs
to the top of a huge spherical fuel tank.
Priest fire blows the tank beneath him
and the mobster's lightning bolt laughter
stains the night in shocks of chattering yellow teeth
and his false heart rises in the flames
as a jeweled bird in a flat black night
and there beyond truth and lies a finer fire burns.