THE GOD OF TRUTH

          Sometimes we have to settle for mere 

          opinions or guesswork, but the god of truth 

          is better served by attendant deities such as 

          reason, justification, and objectivity. 

               —Simon Blackburn, On Truth 

The truth about truth 

is that the truth is 

no divinity; 

it's more like a manic 

pixie in a rom-com. 

We assume it's enough 

to seek it—

to discover it, but 

in practice, we often must 

court and humor;

we must take it 

on fabulous trips with 

our Christmas bonus; 

we must call it 

"god" or "goddess;" we must  

placate and cajole.

And even so, 

capricious as it is, 

we know 

it might freak out 

or ditch us at any moment—

and before it hops 

on to the back 

of the softail 

with our idiot rival 

who lives down the hall, 

the spiteful truth 

might tell us 

it hopes we slit our wrists, 

or that it's better 

off without us—so 

don't bother to call. 

THROWING ROCKS IN LAKE MICHIGAN

Now, as back then, I 

cannot resist (albeit 

with slightly 

longer pauses 

to consider)—

as a kid, to show it 

I really existed; 

to displace with a smack 

the near-infinite 

by a little bit. 

As a man, to smirk 

at the so-called effects

of my causes—not 

to cause at all, 

in fact, but just 

to convince myself 

I'm still that kid. 

OCCUPATIONAL HAZARD

I swear—the older 

you get, the more you 

can't remember, 

but far worse 

than that, the more 

you can't forget. 

It's true; it's 

a bitch. But 

most galling of all 

is how, one day 

when it's nice out,  

you find yourself 

sitting on a bench,

and just watching 

the grass ripple

tricks you into admitting

that the litany 

of your grievances

is at best 

a little 

fusillade of birdshit 

on the otherwise- 

serviceable monument 

which grace 

had commissioned—

and then 

graciousness built—

and then 

forbearance gave 

as a gift 

to existence. 

APOLOGIA

Forever and ever,

from the seraphs 

in the sons

to the demons

in their fathers: 

memory 

is an ulcer—

a hereditary 

lesion. We burn 

where you spit; 

we hurt 

since you were. 

BROWN MOTH

Light worshiper, fellow 

obsessive, 

indentured servant 

of the moon—

how like its surface 

is your chevron body: 

color of the unnoticed, striped 

with the mute button,

dirtied with dust—

your alien eyes 

are consumed 

with the burning 

reflections of grayed fires 

which must look

as enduring

as your mania  

seems stymied by windows 

to us.

ENNEAGRAM 4

The sun 

must be a very 

cruel and narcissistic man 

to be 

so beautiful, so needed—

and to know it—but, 

under pain 

of blindness, still 

prohibit us from staring. 

INCANTATION FOR THE LOST GENERATION

If I could, I would go back there

to kiss the creases 

and clefts of your injuries—

tell you 

I'm sorry 

you were disallowed 

to put your mouth 

around your anger

or your meager joy. 

But,

less for the stern spirit 

than the weeping maid 

inside you 

that drives all of us, I wish

above all to tell you this: 

it is better by far, old man, 

to be defeated 

than destroyed, 

and anyone 

who will not let go 

of a fish 

is an idiot—it's 

just a goddamned fish.