Truth no. 3

Share the road. Get off. Get someone else off. Walk along beside the road. Rollerblade it. Only travel a road it if takes you to the ocean. The truth has much to say. In San Francisco I see a man with a shopping trolley and no shoes, he has a huge white shaggy dog riding up in that trolley with big black eyes like Cleopatra. I meet a man who tells me I might get shot in LA. I meet a man in a bar who says he killed his wife. His parole officer would like his photo. I ask him without blinking what time the bands are on, it’s all I wanted to know comrade. When the truth makes eye contact I never look away. End your detour. The truth is Black Lives Matter. I arrive on 62nd and the sign above me reads — The Devil’s Here. The truth is gasoline. It’s a vestal lady. It’s raw. The truth is not penetrating. The truth is strapping itself on. It’s procrastination. The truth is vital. It’s controversial. The truth is not destroyed by madness. It’s angry. It has not even the vaguest time for hipsters. Where’s your manifesto? There’s no angels in Idaho. It’s time to Lay Down Your Arms. The tsunami is coming. Fuck Hate. One of these days will always be one of these days. These are the good old days. I tell the man who is irritated by my composure that it’s not my generations fault we were brought up as capitalist children, raised to think each interaction had a value based transaction, and despite that, this era is full of youth and venom and underrated genius’s or bastions of kindness – and all of them are extraordinary. I tell him to take his bitter pill and mix it with his tea. Don’t tell me what I am stranger. Truth is something you can’t tell on sight. Truth is not bone deep. The truth is having its 91st birthday. There’s so many homeless here I am dizzied. The truth is I see all of them as  children with eyes open and hopeful and haunting, I see them with long socks or brightly coloured balls, ignored or misunderstood by those who should love them. I see them unable. I see them vulnerable. I see them afraid. I see them defiant. I see them weary. I see them hungry. I see them with dignity and without dignity. I see their children selves in dirty old clothes. That man jumping on the sidewalk, kung-fu kicking the air. I want to bake him a cake and hold him and tell him a story but I’m a prickly person and the truth is I too know what it is to spend nights on streets — it’s a truth I don’t talk about but that doesn’t make it untrue. The truth is still Fuck Hate. Don’t divide me from other people with your ideas of division. My neighbour is me. My neighbour was hurt by my great, great, great grandfather and I am crying on the side of the street. The truth is golden. The truth is women. The truth is women writing. It’s not the truth that is writing women out of history — it’s something else señor. The truth is clitoral. The truth is a banned book. The truth is I don’t miss beatniks. The truth is naked. It steals time. The truth is literary. The truth is fearful. It is words. It is one thousand years-old today. It’s mono. It is a city of light. The truth is my camera is gone. I am the truth. The truth is sleeping on a sidewalk. If you find my truth, run it a bath and put it to bed, please.The truth is Underwoods. The truth is Redwoods. The truth is I went to the oldest trees on earth and they knew I was there and I spoke to them and they tolerated me but the truth is they’ve been walking so long and growing so tall and we humanoids to them are still so very disappointing. The truth is Miwi. The truth is I wasn’t in the room when he dedicated me a song. I’ll meet you in truth. It’s the only place I know. They say that Jesus was a beatnik but they also say he rose from the dead and we should drink his blood and eat his flesh. It’s disgusting. The truth is white people are not white, I’m reading about this truth in a book by Ta-Nehisi Coates. The truth is on the radio but the station is obscure. You seek it out. You go through the fuzz and hum and warble until it declares itself clear as the first call of a sparrow to dawn. The truth is ripped. It’s CND. It’s foggy. It’s debatable. It’s 20% of Americans believing we are being controlled by chem trails. It might not be 20% but the thought of it still pleases me. The truth is mind control. We are raised in institutions that teach us what to think and what to believe and we work in jobs that leave little time for thinking and loving and creating and being — the truth is human trafficking, it’s child abuse, it is domestic violence, it is poverty — there is nothing more truthful than poverty. The truth ignores me. I go to its door and hammer until it shouts out the fucking window at me. It’s a wage. It’s systemic, generational violence inflicted on the psyche and body and opportunities of people of colour. The truth is all colours are equal but some are more equal than others. The truth is that was an idea brought about by psychopaths. The truth is every child. The truth is  being surly. Every parent raising kids hans solo is the truth. The truth is lonely. Nobody’s defending it with guns or armies. The truth did not go to school. The truth does not endorse brainwashing, institutionalisation of any kind, or the taming of potential. The truth is emotional. The truth won’t make amends. The truth must be spoken. The truth is at the foundation and core of every building. The truth is we can’t take the truth. The truth knows what you did wrong. It’s a brake check area. The truth is divided. It’s a concrete washout. It’s shoulder is closed. The truth is calling. The truth is speeding but the cops won’t pull it over. The truth got pulled over and it gave a fake ID. The truth is somewhere in San Francisco there lays my camera but it is not with me. The truth brought my monsters flowers and invited them to love me. The truth is our earliest consciousness. The truth is shame. We’d figured it all out by 10.16. The truth is in your pocket. The truth is every day. The truth is psychic. The truth is upstairs. The truth is reading. The truth is vesuvio. The truth is the best girl in town. It’s a stinking rose. It’s a basque hotel. It’s a cold beer. It’s a floor show. It’s rats in the walls. It’s being unable to say to a stranger — I’m frightened — please hold me. The truth is desolation. It has never been to heaven. They put the truth in a museum but it’s only open from 1-3. The truth is you are magic. The truth is you are stardust. Your bones, your eyes, your cartilage, DNA, hair, pubic, facial, your tongue, your kiss, your touch, your slip and slide, your dreams, the low moan, the electrical charge of communication all around us every fucking day — this universe made us and we can’t fucking take it. The truth is gay. The truth is straight. The truth is trans. The truth has a femme daddy with tattoos of Israel. The truth is people of all faiths. The truth is  humans are a migrant race. The truth is welcome here. The truth is quiet but be certain you can get it here. The truth is local. The truth is strange. The truth is open Thursday – Sunday. The truth will see you by appointment. The truth transacts its business and leaves promptly. The truth delivers mood swings at ten minute intervals. The truth is my bones separated so I could deliver my baby. The truth is rats are not doing the fan dango. The truth is leopard sharks dying off in San Francisco bay. The truth is a young boy on the Bart with a tune to play, a tune to be heard, why can’t you hear him world, why can’t you see? The truth cannot park parallel. Neither can I. Except I can. The truth is bi-coastal. The truth is queer. I am queer as I am free, liking penises never changed that in me. The truth has currents. The truth is drowning. The truth is MNK 713 is the Cadillac for me. I couldn’t drive a gold Cadillac, are you shitting me? You’d have to paint it black and hang rosary’s from the mirror and even then I’d feel too exposed. The truth is demanding exposure. The truth has things to tell me. I dreamt of that big ear — I’m listening. The truth is a hauler. The truth has a sharp crest ahead and trucks are not advised. The truth is rain. The truth is great breaking waves. The truth is sharks with meningitis all over the bay. The truth is at a sidewalk sale. The truth is Balboa. The truth is simple. The truth is being gruel. The truth has priority mail. Live fast, the truth says, but it won’t come round to pick you up later. The truth is cops don’t trust me. The truth is they do. The truth is they drop by the apartment and they are so young and cute and I hope for them safety of some kind out there. The truth is bitter-strange. The truth is ugly-scared. The truth is anger. The truth is perversion. The truth is I need to like my lesser self a whole lot more. The truth is I am learning to not judge my imperfections, I salute my flaws on the crow road, I leave out whiskey for the demons, I draw them a beautiful banner to welcome them home, we waltz together on Mondays and knit together Tuesdays. The truth is Marlin Creek. It taught me how to shoot a Marlin. Everyone’s truth is more road than railway. The truth is 359 miles away. I’ll know the truth in San Francisco but it won’t know me until San Jose. Dorothy is waiting. She’s the bastard out of North Carolina. She’s the only kind of woman you really need to know. The truth won’t face the demon but it will bring you underwear. The truth is kids in care have few decent pyjamas. The truth is I left care with four black bin bags and a thimbleful of hope. The truth is razors in my brain. The truth is I’d rather see a whale than a forest. The truth is radar enforced. The truth is not a team player. The truth is a cathedral tree. The truth is interpretive. The truth is skunk cabbage. It’s ladybird Johnson. It’s my terror, it’s my tired. The truth is edebees. The truth is not for sale. The truth is cavernous. It is too big, too wide. Don’t forget the magic. The truth is beet. The truth is petuloma adobe. It’s mitochondrial. It’s seven sisters we came from. It’s speed enforced. It’s cigarettes afters sex. It’s the giants. It is he and it is she. It’s uterine. It’s a fox dog. It’s a tiny house. It’s racist room allocation. It’s a no stars motel with confusable geometry. It’s that I’m 7% British. I’m 27% Spanish/French. I’m a whole lot Northern Irish. I am in the world and I am being mostly me. A guy tells me he is only 50% my sexual preference and where will that get him. I tell him he is not my preference at all because he’s stupid. I am looking for a 100% soul mate. I’m not really looking. I really must kiss more toads. Bump up against more toads. I am so toad averse. I am a soul gone to seed. It’s olampali. It’s San Marin. It’s how I always head downtown to find my conversation. The truth is waiting. The truth sells haggis burritos. It’s a minor crash, no fatalities. It’s a husband who won’t come home tonight, or for all of time, it is a loss, a gaping, howling wind inside you and me. It’s nave drive. It’s the 2nd exit. It’s trailers and campers. It’s a gusty wind area. It’s Golden Gate bridge where a boy jumped to follow his mother, it’s knowing they will have to drag me from this earth kicking. As long as I can be here to love my son I will be and I will be and I will be and I will be. Even death won’t stop me because like the soul — love travels — outwith our mortal form. The truth has gone to the fairground. It rides the carousel all day. Wave to it, baby. It’s shining for you. It’s posing for a picture. It’s all around us. It’s linked to us as universe-is-to-universe. The truth is we are crazy islanders and the earth is our island and all of us feel abandoned here. The truth is we were always going to make up deities. We tried out capitalism but lately that’s been failing. The truth is fascism didn’t work out so good before. The truth is the least of our capabilities. The truth is at war. There is blood on all our fingernails. We try to scrub it off. The truth is men should never be a thing to be afraid of. The truth is some of my best friends have biological penises. The truth runs really fast. The truth is men need to stand by women on the long road home and say — ownership, via fear, of women and children, of boys and men, of all the utterly miraculous bodies that came here to house our souls — it has to stop. The truth is many of them already do but we need the whole fucking lot. The truth is belvedere. It’s tiburon. It’s mist on the mountain. It’s seminary drive. It’s Sausalito city. It’s exit 455a. It’s tired. It’s weary. We need to bring it home again. The truth is holding my hand. It doesn’t want to be so lonely. I followed the truth across the sea and like an old friend, it welcomed me.

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