The truth is dull, tasteless, future-blank,
about as overrated as political capital,
about as animated as Still Life.
Screw you, Google: your vats of knowledge
can’t autocomplete my soul so fuck fact!
Allow me my little lies; they propel me,
they don’t pinch off argument, they build
foundation with fault but whatever:
when The Big One hits, the truth won’t save.

I refuse to care that the Styx might swallow me.
Heaven awaits on the other side so guzzle me
damnit, cast my bones into black water
& in the meantime I can pine like an evergreen,
my branches reaching for every drop of sun.
It matters exactly nothing that stars explode,
that the very rays I cherish will kill me,
I’ll be long dead anyway.

Maybe a lover will be an enemy. A bottle
will be a hangover, an angel a demon,
a lake a dusty bowl of cacti, a cat all claws.
What of it? I will still swim white & naked
in the moonlight, pray to silent heavens,
drink until I pound time flat as soda,
pet cats with impunity (bellies and all).
I will take my lover in my arms
like she, too, wants to claw my eyes out.

Let’s have a bar brawl over who won MVP
last Stanley Cup, what arbitrary athlete
put a stupid thing inside of another stupid thing.
let’s wail & cry with wolfish passion about numbers,
about how to pronounce Appalachia,
about people we hurt around pool tables
& under toll bridges, & on battlefields. We’re all idiots
anyway so let’s at least try to be happy idiots.

See—we’re the kind of idiots who care
about truth without actually knowing it.
We don’t keep it in our pocket protectors,
we bounce it in a circle like a hacky sack,
knead it with our toes & with our tongues.
There’s no need to decipher our drivel—
the drivel is the good stuff, the language
of logic is our cautious enemy. He lurks
like a smartass at the back of class,
shoots blow-darts at our frivolity.
Ignore him. Nobody likes that kid,
the teacher won’t even eat his apple.

Listen, I’m not saying fuck truth
but maybe if he just took a seat for a while
nobody would mind very much. Maybe
we’d take our clothes off & run naked
through corn fields, or maybe we’d eat
bugs out of pitcher plants, or maybe,
just maybe, we’d remember happiness.