The Talent for Lying


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To be truly curious
It will take all of your heart
To listen to people and to question things
There is nothing revolutionary

Whatsoever about it
It’s the natural state of being human
You must write, read and live
As if you knew nothing

That you might explore
Every point of view
Every frame of reference
As valid, every formulas as good

Until there are no more words
And no more self in what
You have found, then tell yourself
The meaning of life

Lying is done with words
And also in silence
The world lies to itself everyday
To perpetuate ignorance

So that some might profit over the many
Poetry is a concentration on
The ultimate relationship
Of everything in the universe

With itself, the self that is only a half-truth
It’s the connections that are beautiful.

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(lessons in Cognitive ecstasy)


20

Lullaby of a Lifetime of Living Bliss
(lessons in Cognitive ecstasy)

There is a cognitive brilliance in
Thought’s end at the edges of beauty
How the last colors spilled
In the pale air, the color of light
That drink o traitorous beauty

Again and again, so intimate
Like the breath of a woman
We knew that never seemed present

Only just around the corner, so
Indefinably alien and inalterable
The one our body and soul pitted
Time and space against, rubbing
For quantum moments in quiet nothingness

“Be self no more against the flooding dark”
Women whispered to themselves to be strong
But I felt the stars and worlds come alive

In the presence of women, like following my bliss
To the ends of the Earth, where would I arrive?
In the heritage of green that was once
An everywhere, that became a nowhere
There is a spiritual ‘must’ in

Thought’s end at the edges of silence
Where the spirit goes because it must
Like something homeless in the night

“Though but the world they say is mine”
Says the woman to herself, after becoming a mother
How the last colors spilled
In the pale golden air, the color of milk
Spilled like a last majority of bliss attained

That made the dust and journey seem to shiver
And how at our roots the violet seemed to burn
And love, how it was more thick

With stars than the fields with dew
And we felt the hours hold their summer-breath
For the sleepy fever of incredible joys.