Mental flux

Mental flux

There’s exploded coffee

on the floor, walls,

ceiling and sink


The bathroom reeks

of virgin coffee grains and

aging liquid congealed on the floor


The scent bites hard like Humean

musings on our natural lust

for dollar-fisted elites


As a layman of honest words

I observe them as a passive

thinker with silver-plated dreams


They are the culmination, the ambition

in many of my folks’ lofty sights.

Ever looking they be beyond


this post-modern reality

where the ideal of the self-made

is held by the fortunate few


while absurd cycles of crime,

racial violence and poverty

do death dances around them


From the vantage point of the

double-disadvantaged, I watch them

as I watch the fluxed coffee of the floor


Ignited toward action, yet stalled

by uncertainty of where the income

ladder leads and leans

Quid est Veritas? (What is Truth?)

Quid est Veritas

What is Truth

that it should hang

from a tree

like a beggar or thief?

Tortured, homeless,

deserted, scorned;

Truth the dissident,

the martyr,

the activist of the poor.


Within divine shadows of noon,

one question hangs

like militias of the law:

                                         What is Truth?

Again the question hangs

like scriptural syllables

to the scrutiny of exegesis

or skin in rigor mortis––

                                        Quid est Veritas?

Look, and you’ll see the answer there:

spilled on holy ground

between the water and the blood.