I wrote a bouquet of lies
and handed them out
at intersections. People
seem to like them, so
I’m making more.
People seem to like them.
I’m making more of that
than I should, perhaps. Perhaps I’m
made for this. Perhaps I’m
just a born liar.
A born liar, but perhaps
people like a born liar.
Better than a made one,
perhaps? Who gets made
into a liar, anyway?
Whoever gets made as a liar
ought to stop lying and
get away from what made them
lie. No one’s born to it; ask
any kid about anything. You’ll see.
You’ll see: if you ask a little kid
a question, they will tell the truth
with simple brutality. We teach them
how to lie — first by polite silence,
then by lying to them all the time.
Then we lie there, all the time,
knowing what we’ve done to our kids.
No wonder everyone seems to love
getting blooms from the bouquet of lies.
It’s funereal out there. Here is something
to take the edge off. To make you feel
perhaps better, by knowing you aren’t alone
in the lying business. Here’s another
pretty one. I see you smiling as you
take it from me. We know what’s at stake.