The Truth Is — No.4

The truth is love me. The truth is in building no.4 but the mail goes to little Italy. The truth is that New York’s finest needs all of New York’s finest. The truth is the road narrows. The truth is a steeple. A cockerel is crowing. It’s the animal kingdom. The truth is dollar tree. It’s Marshall’s fish point factory. The truth is smokey. The truth is conch shell umbrellas. The truth is I can’t spell umberella. The truth is Brooklyn Queens. The truth is chaos leads our orders. The truth is baby grew a back spine. The truth is thermal imaging. It’s an old lady being x-rayed with her hands above her head. It’s the flowers on her dress. It’s the way her skin is soft and falling. It’s — you need to step in line, Miss. I’t the pain in my ears and head. The truth is skull and crossbones. The truth is a filter. The truth is $2.50. The truth is cloudy. The truth is thru traffic keep right. The truth is my taxi driver can’t understand me. It’s not his fault, I’m complicated. The truth is Delancey St. The truth is on the church bus and it’s driving through the valley. It’s Joe’s fabric and pigeons flying. The truth is entry is forbidden. The truth is the Amtrak guard from Kalamazoo to Chicago is someone to dream of later. The truth is red movers and van lines. The truth is DTX. The truth is the man from Kalamazoo in his uniform is my husband in another life, one where I was actually the marrying kind. The truth is DDTX. The truth is DDTX76529. It is deception creek. Klamath. The truth is the trees are green. The truth is her yurt was somewhere I should have slept more. The truth is I never slept there. The truth is being a certain way. It allows us to focus. The truth is you cannot measure the outline of land except you fucking can. He loves her because she’s beautiful and be assured by that he means she’s thin. She is beautiful and true and real. Real is beautiful. So is barbecue. It’s easy to think life is great when you’ve had generations of people who liked what you had to say and how you said it and listened to you say it and said it then to each other. The truth is shady. It’s a gap between your teeth. The truth has a view point and it is underlined by snow. Snow is dirty and it was dirty and I like dirty things and if the Spring was not to come I would not mind at all. The low world spirits absorb those above them. Oral stories passed down as science are the very first tonal kind of truth. The truth is pumice. It’s ash. The truth is 300 feet deep. It’s the centre of the blast rock. It is the interior. The truth is disappearing. It is tranquil. It is blue. It was once a mighty mountain. It’s 44 feet of snow at crater lake. It is the Milky Way above us for millions of years. It is my child’s voice reading me a story late at night from far across the sea. It’s my want to take a plane and see him right away. The truth is in the water. It keeps life on earth alive. The truth is self-sustainable. The truth is not a number. It is a number but I won’t tell you what it is. If you rang truth’s number you’d only get the answer machine. The answer machine would lie to you. It’s protective of the truth. The truth is the caldera. Caldera is the truth. The truth is astounding. The truth is clarity. The truth is puffy eyes in the morning of endless nights. The truth wants to go home. Home is the truth but so too is all of elsewhere. The truth is my child asking me what his eyes are and I tell him in his eyes is all of the sea. Whenever he goes to the ocean now he finds his eyes and too he finds mine. It’s him telling me the blood in his veins is my blood and the veins in my blood are his hope and the fears I transgress are the least he deserves and I will be a better person before the crescent moon descends. The truth is in Umpque. The truth has subalpine habitats. The truth is wild. It is flowers. It goes to seed and passes things onto the next generation. The truth is untouched by human development. The truth is I do love some yellow. Gorse flowers, sunlight, mustard pots and halos. The truth is a schoolboy or so the story goes. That story is hidden in a conch shell. Tip up your ears little wolf and hear it. The truth is I’ve been waiting to hear wolves howl my whole life. The truth is energy. It is a sense of wonder but too it is mundane. The truth is a myth. The truth is a Merry Prankster. It is the bus of inordinate wisdom. It drives itself. There are children on top of the bus, teenagers, topless in bell bottoms with flowers in their hair and one throws a brightly coloured ball to a little boy as they fly by him in a tiny American town. The truth is not on wizard island. The truth is on wizard island but if you meet the wizard he’ll deny it then he’ll turn you into a toad. The truth has visitor information. The truth won’t accept visitors but it won’t reject them either. The truth studies you whilst you’re sleeping but it rarely wastes time dreaming. The truth is dreaming. You are the truth I dream. The truth is fire. The truth is a prospect. It’s turn left in 1/4 of a mile. It’s being told in an untold way that my work is worthless by a woman bitter as a bomb. It’s getting shit from a certain type of person despite every accolade because my class defies me but I won’t hide it on the page. It’s a working class intellectual being the thing that is most feared. It’s being a thing. It’s being. Thing. Like. The truth is a rogue river. The truth is that Pat likes to hand tie flies. It’s lawlessness on the highway, in the hearts and souls of poets and soldiers. The truth is camping. Shady Kaye is in shady cove. I’m in the Valley of the rogue. I’m going to our lady of the river because I really need to heal. Speed enforced by primal. It’s a satanical trail. It has good news. Jesus is alive! It says it to the dirt road whilst I’m pissing on the tracks. My piss is golden. It’s holy. I keep seeing homeless kids on the road. Adults. In betweens. They are in between the places where safety meets security. America you are beautiful, why don’t you tuck them in? The truth is some kind of goldilocks environment. It’s aridian. The truth is I don’t hear so well. The truth keeps interrupting. The truth is so well turned out, it has shiny shoes and a starched shirt and a gift of freshly picked flowers and you still won’t let it come to your party? Your party is the worst one in the entire fucking world. The truth can come to my house. I keep a door open for it all the time. The truth is woman are demeaned but they’re still fucking heroes. You force them to beg for ownership of your future but the recently deleted know they have had the truest power for all of time. The truth is I’m in a strange town. I met the sea lion and the ranger. I’m going to see Dorothy Allison. Hit the road. Open your eyes.

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