the real artful dodgers
are the poets
those lying
never to be trusted
unreliable narrators
except:
the vast lost
of them that stare at
the abyss of truth
with existential
angst and wonder...
which is why
they are sorely
disrespected here
in America
because here truth
is as individual
and as scattered
as the wind blown leaves
under the Washington Avenue Bridge
where John Berryman
jumped
on a cold winters day
of coarse
their are a few
who say he slipped
so who do you trust?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
'the abyss of truth? is a wonderful phrase. I often doubt the validity of what I say, even though I intend truth. I guess that makes me an 'unreliable narrator.' Enjoyed the thoughts it provoked. Regards, Cal