The Truth Well

Both the Truth and the liars are hidden

And will not come forth to speak unbidden

By necessity’s will or convenience,

Unless called for by fakery of sense.

At the bottom of a stinking dry well —

Half way, the easy half, from here to Hell —

Where nakedness — dear Truth — shivers and sighs —

Will Emptiness stitch golden clothes of lies.

He emerges to strut in his glory.

Every sentence he spouts is a story.

The Truth, her bruised body cleansed at least,

Climbs out to the reception of a beast.

They beat and rape her, drag her by her hair,

Throw her back into the well, her dark lair.

Lies

If I said the moon is blue

And that no lie is ever true,

Should I believe myself or you,

You who once knew the truth?

A ticket bought at a liar’s booth

Is worth a hundred billion dollars,

The blind, deaf, dumb man hollers,

As the crowd stampedes to buy its

Own, so quickly torn to little bits

And ticker-taped into the streets,

Soon grown to enormous sheets

Of gray that once was black and white.

It is a petty insane sight.

There is the found and what one seeks —

Both become an idee fixe,

One thing and one alone

That morphs, like the game telephone,

The moon into a blaring tone.