A liar always sits in front of bookshelves
as if all of those digested volumes stand
as firmly within their corporeal selves.

Consider mine, for I am not the man
who took that Ginsberg volume for gospel,
as that man was not also, in his turn,

the one that made The Selfish Gene his Bible.
They may as well be train tickets for all
the knowledge that I might claim to dispel

or shoe boxes packed with my old toenails
or bags of hair picked from barbershop floors
or transcripts from childhood confessionals

or cold, nocturnal pee in labelled jars.


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