Hard, sour truth pulls in my cheeks,
chokecherries on the tree of knowledge
can't be swallowed, yet inseparable
from the sweet berries and savory nuts.
The erroneous things you believe,
the things you desperately want to be true,
the sugar glazed, jelly filled confections
of sky-pie spun sweetness
sate you with contentment and confirmation.
The creamcakes of happy-talk
served by nodding bobbleheads
put you to sleep in the soft bosom of ignorance.
The night pulls you deeper into that voluptuous place,
but her liquor, her powdered scent give out.
You face is pressed in the poxed and pimpled stink of deceit.
You wake on the wet, crumbling asphalt,
flat on your arse in a squalous alley of shame.
Truth finds you penniless, sodden and sick.
She dumps your sore bones and aching head in her pushcart.
With a stiff brush and cold, clear water
she scours off the filthy crust.
Raw and shivering in your pink hide
she drops you next to the oast.
Draped in her wool blanket, you sleep it off.
What I know fills several large barrels.
What I don't know fills an ocean.
What I believe fills a top hat full of rabbits and silk flowers.
Some truth is there on the back of your hand.
Some truth is up on a mountain.
Some truth is as soft and tasty as fresh bread and butter.
Some truth is hard and sharp and impossible to swallow.
Which brings us back to chokecherries.
A single chokecherry will pull your salivary glands,
your tongue, your tonsils and your eardrums
into a golfball knot of gagging tartness.
You would not believe that anything could be so sour
until you try to eat one.
Then you will know the truth about chokecherries.