Nothing if not True

These are jumbled thoughts
like train cars derailed
or some bran filled cereal
spilled on formica.

Nothing you'll read here
resembles truth:
truth, in fact,
resembles moths
struggling
in a web of silk.

The devil invented words
and sent the best
to craft endless sonnets
(like building toothpick hearts)
and whittle at life
in the dark.

A pot of arrogance
and a pinch of whine
is all this poet can stir.
He's not a poet,
but just a guy,
sitting in a swivel chair.

Practice
and together
we'll invent something
and call it perfection.
That's all Alice is After.