You can’t align poetry with the truth. They’re not
Two frayed ends of fractured bone to match.
I would like to opine poetry interrogates truth,
But that would not be true, not often. Poetry
Is a back alley among the teeming avenues
Along which facts, the actual, and lies, themselves
A fantastic palette of shades of deflection,
From creamiest white to purest confabulation,
With all sorts of umbers, ochres, and bilious
Green shadows of other-than-actual in between,
Constantly traffic. You could get raped, knifed
Or merely mugged in poetry. You could be bored
Or depressed by the dim light and the wretched
Stink of stale beer, vomit, piss, and dumpsters.
You could discover a graffito or soot-darkened mural.
You could sleep, homeless, at the interstices of power.
But you will not align with the truth, nor ever
Be fully free from it, neither. Poetry is
A narrow, maybe nasty, maybe risky shortcut
Between the parallel lines of the great debates.
It can be very useful for reaching or escaping
From the barricades. It’s a good spot for a secret
Kiss or grope. But poetry itself is only a residue
Of the metropolitan architecture of fictions,
Facts, and faiths. Truth? Lies? Nope. Nope. Mistakes.
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