Life is a fountain. To escape the mucky earth of graves

We build towers and houses and beds.

The rationalizing and intellectualizing and facebooking,

The bubble of mainstream conspiracy which keeps us aloft

Glitters, and we are crazy and wrong.

Soiled soil, who soiled you?

Few attend the poetry reading. The poet

Is slightly more psychotic than the audience.

“Introverts don’t like to explain things. Accept

Their silence.” The term “introvert”

Becomes another word for creep. Cover-up is all.

Let’s keep the shit under wraps, and pretend

Our political side is good, just because it’s best,

Or let’s send the shit flying everywhere.

Factually speaking, I don’t know whether the facts

Of the conspiracy are true, or not;

These hammy journalists don’t know either.

Partial information is quickly printed, and you decide

Whether you want to appear as the type of person

Who tends to believe in poetry, or not.

We ride the fountain. Facts don’t like facts.

We keep talking and explaining, vainly,

Going with our gut, our eyes, our wants.

Officials do things, and this becomes fact,

Even though the premise may be wildly off.

Even romance and children fail to be profound.

We even sound like a fountain.

Error keeps talking as the earth

Waits, the path—see it?—leading to a dark hole in the ground.





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