"Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem." - Paul Celan
Truth is a girl not a cave-wall
That blurs at its endings with froth.
We rise to real only when the heat of our vapor dissipates.
Commerce with stars is the ink gift of Thoth.
Ecrivain - effacement - vraiment comme-ca?
Record for the Lord the turnip yields
Save your blood for your own plot,
The always target moving farther fields.
Boxes to be opened, like winter solstice packages,
Mind's toys with gears that hold the stones of years
Our ticking clocks to make us feel alive
And make our peace with all that disappears.
Like vampyres before a funhouse mirror
We are the minotaurs of our own labyrinths
Collecting all we love inside our pyramids
So we can let it go like any prince
When kingdoms come like wormholes to jump in.
That varnished limitation - you call yourself - a victim,
It hurts to know you put that version there
To learn the depths of surface from the skim.
You'll enter any room, inhabit any day,
Make remote controllers bow before your will,
Appear in precious seconds as the light you really are
—And all of it just patterns held until
You learn that you're a verb and not a noun,
There is no truth but you inside your hands,
The eyes that watch you always are your own,
You are your one and only biggest fan.
