The Lucious Truth
Truth is less like an objective fact and more like Rivers winding their way through the mountains and down Into the lake of humanity where all stories Eventually meet. So you can’t look up the truth In a dictionary, because someone Wrote that dictionary and even if they were trying Their best to scoop all the luscious truths From that lake with a giant ladle of Editorial wisdom, it’s never enough, never The full picture. I bought an oil painting at an art show, but Instead of hanging it on the wall, I ran It through my paper shredder. Hundreds of thousands of colored pieces of confetti Spit out into the bin. I was meticulous in accounting for Every tiny piece, then I dumped them on the round, glass coffee table In my living room and spent the rest of my life trying To piece it all back together. Someone worked hard on that painting, and you Shouldn’t waste other people’s expressions— What if they contain the truth, or At least as much of it as we can hold?
This is my favorite poem of yours to date, Jude. Truth, as what? — a living organism, a river ecosystem, with currents converging. The shredded painting leaves me stunned. So memorable. So many thoughts and feelings about it, but what an incredible metaphor for human mental experience — and a vivid, even cinematic, view of how our minds piece experience back together. Splendid, Jude.