Liars dance to fire, not music.
Liar, liar, pants on fire, must be coming out your ass. How you think of stories so fast, to avoid living your own past. And use the future to suture the wounds that don’t suit you so you can plan a brand new stance to post up in the club next weekend. Erased your search history, so just what are you seeking? Because you don’t seem to be peaking eating the produce you’ve been seeding. Almost like you didn’t see what you buried in too little fertility. Grand abundance of shit, you didn’t compost any of it, growing fuzzy and fly buzzing but not a single tomato on it. One thing the lie seed never seems to grow. Anything edible. Something so simple. As living in a world instead of a nation, responsible for choices but not for creation. On your throne like a flea on a dog, like a God, no kingdom on earth so you trespass heaven. Three thousand eleven. You will have no more children in this place. The you part of you will be lost to outer space, because you can’t remember which planets most familiar. All the stories you told made you cold keeping you old though you were young enough to know better. Liar, liar, get a grip like a pair of pliers. Come to terms with your own past. Fast. Or you will always live like there is fire under your ass.
One hour at a time
The way a man works when his boss is around.
How he fails most often only at sitting down.
Taking breaks in between giving breath.
Risking health, increasing wealth, one hour at a time.
The skin crack filling oil turned black,
soot brown and red clay, dead gray,
swirling wind teasing ash twirling above, beyond, away from fire.
That raspy roaring smudge dripping chipped off-white dust spraying
chainsaw, teeth eating straight lines through just now living wood.
Flakes of tulip poplar stuck to his wool sweater.
Oil dotted pants looking wet staining free denim.
And the person who pays him.
He sees her in the window watching.
This is his chance. To make her regret the glance.
To stop the boss once and for all from looking out.
He will saw to pieces, split quartered and stacked,
every thick gray wrapped stump of her doubt.
Last summer’s sugar
Falling morning sun on the leaves that ate last summer. Last summer’s sugar stored in roots that may never see the sun again. Alive. Eyes. Buried like air in bricks. Stack the seed of collapse same as stability and hope and all with the hand that rolls dice. Mouth that breaths out disparity but through the filter of coffee stained teeth rolling off liquor tongue wave like froth, off the God damned ocean. God couldn’t catch a fish that day. And damned it always stay never same. Like it is. We are. Sort of like a signature by an author on the cover of a book. It is important to know when a creator has touched its own work. Though it says nothing about the text. The buried test. Embedded attest. Rest in peacefully full with testimony. Own it. Scratch the terrible little title you’ve been dressing up in all these years on it, and hand it back to the stranger who first ever brought it back to you. Your own work. They’re not satisfied. Yes it fell like morning sun. On leaves never treasured by trees. Last summer’s sugar, stored like roots, in me. But none of that is enough. Back in my hands like that’s not where it all began. Asking me if I’m willing to put my name on it.