Truth is a terminal condition,
you know the truth of nothing
until you’ve earned your own
and then swallowed it
by regurgitating, ruminating, and
biting it back until it’s evident
that you are choking on it.
God bless you, Henry Heimlich,
we are grateful for vomit.
Truth is the apple in the grass
asking a hungry Eve to eat it.
Hunger is the root, the heart
of evil, a silent serpent.
The sin hisses slow venom
from twin punctures in skin.
Adam hugs Eve from behind
but she cannot unlearn it.
Knowing is a tragedy that ends
with the cruel death of suspense.
Like trusting gravity, not knowing
is a better opiate than religion,
than heroin and orgasm.
Starving minds love free lunches
even if served with a side of agenda.
The hand that feeds signs instructions.
The lips attached to it mouth convincing pidgin.
If you won’t make up your own mind,
a stranger will, and he’ll tax it.