Daily Archives: June 20, 2016

A Lie

A lie is a lie is a lie.

Long chains hold us 
to our pasts. We claim
to have cracked their locks
and are now free of them, but 
a lie is a lie is a lie; 

we give our faith to 
such talk, choose not to hear 
those who still bear 
the weight
we claim to have thrown off;

it’s clear that we are not fooled
but are in thrall to our lies,
and a lie is a lie is a lie;

our lies form a base on which we build
those truths which may in fact be true
in the small scope of our own small lives
but which are bitter 
jokes in the lives
of those whose backs hold us up; a lie

is a lie is a lie. We lie with our lies
when we sleep safe and sound
in our safe beds; to lie
in those beds is to lie in and on
a bed of lies and what is safe,
what is sound, what is
a sound sleep

when each breath we take in sleep
is matched by those whose breaths 
are long since — and even now —
cut off, choked off, stopped
by blood in the throat? How is it
that we do not dream
of blood
come to drown us

when we lie down
when our lie is a truth for some
and not all?
If it is a lie for some

it is still a lie,
is all a lie, 

and it’s no lie to say it kills.

The Chastisement Of Christopher Eggplant

Christopher Eggplant — so called because he always seems tightly skinned and shiny, and because in the right light when showing his usual level of vague expansive derision at all things not Christopher appears also somewhat purple in flesh tone — Christopher Eggplant may have just given his final lip to a dangerous man; as usual not knowing when to apply the brake to his wit, he has decided to tease a large and surly pale laborer at the next door construction site, a man who having finished work for the day is sitting in his silver Buick with the door open chugging a tall Colt 45 and loudly singing the hook of a popular song in a surprisingly thin and pitchy tenor voice; to which apparent provocation Christopher Eggplant has responded by calling out to the man his sarcastic appreciation of the tune, calling him by a brutal parody of the name of the heart-throb who has made it a hit; the man’s comrades upon the job are starting to trot from their own cars and drinking spots toward Christopher Eggplant even as his target rises himself from the Buick no longer singing but with a strange blank look upon him, almost as if he has become some kind of machine, almost as if there’s something inside him that has turned off any sense of irritation, almost a contrast — although more of a goad — to those who are approaching with anger on his behalf, or fear for Christopher Eggplant as they seem to know that something deeply awful is about to happen, something that only the most depraved among us would be so excited to observe, and as I am excited to observe from a distance I feel thus depraved but will not lift my own finger to help Christopher Eggplant as none of us who know him from the neighborhood will, as time slows to a crawl, as the danger surrounds him, as we take a deep and uneasy satisfaction after taking years of his abuse at the prospect of watching him fall so awfully, so wetly, to the infertile ground.