Truth Be Told

Thomas Farber

Loss of will. And, also, loss of won’t.

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“I love you,” she told him. And then, seeing his expression, added, laughing, “But don’t worry, I’m very good at unrequited love.”

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The complex, surprising lives of others. Envy as failure of the imagination.

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His problem is that his soul looks like his body.

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There came a point he realized he’d be changed not by traveling but by coming home.

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A writer: someone willing to hurt others.

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Audible silence. The story of her life was she’d resolved not to tell it.

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“You wasted your life,” she says, flattering both herself and him.

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That poem? Prose failing to go the distance.

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Remorse: biting one’s own back.

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Q: Have I wasted my whole life?
A: No. Not yet.

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Spring makes light of winter’s sorrows.

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He wouldn’t recognize the truth if it walked past him naked.

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Surprising, not that he lived alone, but that he could live with himself.

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Spacious bedroom. Room for misunderstanding.

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He tells her, “You’re my soul.” Which he fails to save.

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Yo, jilted lovers! Don’t argue with the dead when they’re still alive.

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Afraid. Of, for instance, being alone with a book.

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Quiet. Worth a great deal.
Too quiet. Worth even less.

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Fans at ball games screaming obscenities. A kind of Halloween, but is it masks on or masks off?

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You haven’t really lived til you don’t want to live anymore.

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Winter darkness. The end is nigh(t).

 

Selected from Thomas Farber’s book, Truth Be Told: New & Collected Premortems (Hip Pocket Press, 2005).

 

Thomas Farber reading from Truth Be Told at Black Oak Books in Berkeley, California, on September 21, 2005.

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