santos scribes

If the truth stands and the secret dies 

Why am I still lying on the kitchen floor  

Of someone else’s heart? 

Where is my heart? 

What does it have to say? 

About me, I mean. 

Why am I still unable to say the word ‘Mother’ without explaining it? 

Without experiencing that charge around my neck? 

Maybe sometimes the truth doesn’t stand 

Maybe sometimes it sits in a cage and rests for awhile 

Unsure what to do with itself, with the flat key in its lap 

Why so much lying?  

In the first place, I mean 

So much living from the inside of lies we know to be true 

Running along side rivers and streams of our own polluting  

Boxed some place tight, crashing the same rocked walls

Sediments hovering high above 

It takes just 24 hours, one day & it’s ours- 

A lie, is a certain kind of home hell

And we have rights to it, even in the absence of truth 

Even in the absence of truth, we have rights. 

Except when we don’t  

Except when there are lines drawn through names 

And people taken in the night 

Could it be that simple? 

Could a line through a name

Absolve a person’s connection

To it? 

Can you imagine it? 

I can. I do, all the time 

If the truth stands and the secrets die 

Why are we tantalized by secrecy and still so fucking afraid of the truth? 

Frightened to death of our own verticalities  

I have _no_ idea but am full of ideas 

Full of wonder about the unexpressed things; 

The lying and The hovering  

The restlessness slow to rise in me yet 

like a breath being drawn up

and not taken in.