To know a truth is not to need lies
lies are cold and the truth is warm
Why do we make-up stories and tell them to our friends around a campfire?
If I walk down main street, I neglect
the neglected path
It goes to the graveyard,
where bodies get tired of lying still
smoke and fog in contrast to stars and street lights
offering clear directions, to tired travelers
in a city of lost people.
I don’t want to memorize streets
that tell me where to go, St. Paul or St. Peter
I prefer the pathless woods,
a nameless truth
that can’t be understood.
When I listen to know-it-alls, I don’t want to know it all
I challenge them with unarticulated feelings
and they always win, with cold hard facts
their memorized words, don’t hold any mystery
Do they seem mysterious to you, when they shout their truth?
To say the name of God, doesn’t mean they know God
We draw nearer to the fire, to stay away from the cold
We don’t want to be yelled at
There’s a block of marble, that I carve
in the neglected graveyard
brittle, with age
burned, by hell
I cut figures of beauty, from neglected lost causes
stones bleed, and the bodies underground
It’s too late for them
and too late for me
forgiveness and humility, cut into my heart of stone
so that love turns to flesh
full of suffering and meaning.
I memorialize myself,
but graveyards are neglected,
and my chiseled name can’t cry-out.
It’s easy to be remembered, less so
to shape the living
to bleed each person, drip by drip
is to be curious, about their marbled heart
like pink veins, or black grain
to be studied
and never understood.
Alcoholics sleep in the graveyard
with newspapers stuffed inside their clothes
the truth, is the paper
the cold words, have no meaning
pages and pages
serve a purpose, that wasn’t intended.
Those who know
can teach us
and those who don’t know
can teach us more.