The interwoven truth of all things.

What can we say about

The exciting Concept of the truth?

The predominant, the religious reality of it.

Truth is Bruce Lee, wasting no motion,

Reading world philosophy

And studying abroad,
Then calmly pummeling interlopers

Into the soil of the fallen and failed coliseum.

The truth is lonely but rich and generous

The truth is not welcome in certain parts of town.

It dwells on the flood planes and where

The water tastes dangerous.

The truth is a levy that Explodes,

BOOM,

A skyscraper that is obliterated into dust

When mosquitoes bite it,

VWOOSH,

It is a bodyguard

Being given a direct command to stand down,

WTF!

It is a liturgy of Comic Book

Heroes repackaged

On magic film

For sad and lost adults

And their increasingly indistinguishable children,

Bang.

The truth doesn’t flinch

Or break easily.

The truth regularly disobeys a direct command

But can’t be dishonorably discharged

Or executed for cowardice

Because only humans can be cowards,

And besides Truth doesn’t

Physically exist outside of the mind of GodandMan,

You sillything.

But lest ye get it too twisted:
Still the truth is not just a metaphor

In the minds of the presumptuous or

The old-fashioned,

Or the one meekly

Reduced to poetry.

It vomits violently with a cackle on

Most post-modern tropes of
its unknowableness,
and of the sacred validity of multiple viewpoints.

It does not thoroughly enjoy

The long and meticulous essay form,

But doesn’t eschew it when

Things get hairy and demand

An involved sentence or two.

But the Truth is also

Unconscious, voiceless

Simple weights and measures,

Sober noble reasoning,

And the terms of agreement

For rational discourse

And critical, objective inquiry

That the human race has forged

For itself through

Millennia and tribulation

And suffering.

The truth finds its Level,

Even in the crookedest scenes

Or spectacles

Of Florida and Las Vegas and

Many olde university towns.

It is the perfect, pointed tool

Extended from the heart and mind of God,

Towards our fragile

Needs.

yes the truth is a round table,

Where every Jew and Christian and Moslem
and Hindoo and Buddhist and Taoist

And animist and agnostic, humane,
merely philosophical

Individual that does not approve of murder and lies

Is welcome,

But more importantly,

Badly needed.

Atheists, though, can
sincerely go to Hell,
they bother me.

The truth is not pale, clammy

Gollum strangling squeakers in the dark,

Or being cryptic and clever with rhyming words.

It isn’t buried under a mountain,

Not that hard to find or difficult to face.

It is Frodo,
naive and decent,

Laboring beneath a burden

With only minor complaint,

And caring for his friends and family.

The truth is not permitted

Inside a CNN Town Hall,

It’s apparent.

It tends to sit at home,

Being globally concerned

About this and that,

Writing an essay for hours

Knowing it will hardly be read,
playing games and watching talkies
in order to deal
and pass the weirdness of this time.

But truth is
definitely much more than

The inexorable need of the

Narrow individual to be right,

Or righteous

The truth is our loyal,
privately, contractually secured protector
who rides shotgun

But is always in control

The truth is a hard,

Sharp sonic weapon exiting the mouth,

The sound of skepticism,

Followed by a soft,

Intimate drawing back in

On the tongue to

Meet the teeth,

And more.

The truth is sitting

In a corner alone,

Laughing and crying.
I keep hearing it is blind and naked, too.

The truth is in a dark basement

In a strange house in the middle

Of the evil desert,

One day away from starvation.

It is AIDS leaping fully formed

From the unfettered sadism of the cold war period,

to kill the fags

Of NYC and southern CA,

And the darkies of all the world,

First through shadowy “medical programs”

Involving injections.

Just as in Africa,

The continent,

And then eventually everywhere else,

through the act of love or pleasure.

Death through Life.

That seems like a truth,

As I suppose Jim Jones would agree.

The truth is 

Beranton J. Whisenant Jr.,

federal attorney,

Showing up dead 

on a south florida beach

near Parkland,

With no weapon

And a bullet hole in the head,

Ruled “suicide,” case closed.

Multiply this case

By a factor of
crazed mongoltude

And add willing

Demons called Hollywood

And public education

And collected news media,

And there is the Truth.

Lurking courageously in the internet,

Constantly embattled by attacks against its

Under-valued,

Objectively pure and clean character,

called a crazy theorist of different things.

The truth can take any punch,

But rarely gets the chance,

Or has the need.

It dies young and lives forever.