there is no truth
only stories
Without which where
would we be?
It's the night of the story
and we
storytellers!
The hush is a willing
suspension
of disbelief.
We call it "peace on earth"
(implied, not realized)
As if there's any
accountability
(such a small word).
It's within the story
each one weaves.
Facts fall out and muster
at the force of belief.
The tales that are shared
across the table
believed
because the teller believes.
Why is that
so very difficult for me,
to have compassion
for the story
Instead of
the false identity
On this rainiest of
Christmas Eves?
Where the salts
are finally
scattered
Across our bedroom floor
along with all our crystals,
that had been laid out
in bagwan purity
(more stories!)
There are too many
reasons why,
none
that satisfy.
Unconditional doesn't quite
cover
the kind of compassion
required.
I should have left the story
uncorrected,
For there is no knowledge,
only terror
At the inkling they are caught
in the web
of their own
bad faith.
Meds don't work,
shock recoils,
talk expends itself
in the scarcity of air,
The teachable moments become
never extinguished
excuses for
recriminations
Along with self-loathing, of course,
for no amount of burning
can quench
Desire for the bridge
to be open
and serving.
Violence is always the test
of whether love
can be trusted.
O the songs
that come in
its wake.
