a cup of coffee is honest



and full of the stuff

that makes me yawn.

Being tired is honest—

the only thing I want to do

is sleep.

Sometimes, I’m so tired

that I don’t need to eat.

When that happens

waking up

is true enlightenment.

Here I am, trying to be a poet

and when I write

in my mother’s notebook

she laughs

“Your aunt wrote something much better than you.”

I laugh, at the truth.

Poets are some of the most pretentious people

ever created.

They look into the mirror,

and see, what they want to see,

and this is why they fail.

Poetry, is not the words

Poetry, is 10 hours of sleep, with the sun rising

The world could be ending


there might be protesters in the streets

doing rope tricks

looking for a little payback

for what my ancestors did.

“Hey, let’s kill the white male.”

I laugh. Don’t they know

about the French? (I love to blame the French)

They had a revolution (you know).


is playing the same notes—

that historical tune has sung the funeral dirge of








and the unborn.

It’s always a new law

and not a new heart

that kills everybody

in the name of truth.

“Hey, Aidan, get over here.”

“My name’s not Aidan, it’s Andy.”

“How dare you claim a monopoly on the truth. Hemlock! You are corrupting the youth!

“Listen,” I said. “You can’t kill the truth. It has a way of being found out.”


7 thoughts on “You Can’t Kill the Truth

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