Lies

The idea of lies in the poetry language has intrigued me since we learned about it. I presented a poem in workshop that incorporated lies. I edited it up for my portfolio but I figured I would show you guys as well.

I walked to the grave of my father,

sat down in the cool grass and leaned

against the smooth stone

sipping a PBR, his favorite.

I though about the time I was out late,

dreamt up a story, selling it smoothly

without so much as a stutter

sneaking out at night

sneaking back at dawn

He knew, always, but only caught me once,

sitting in his great arm chair, smoking, waiting,

for the silent crawl through the window that

never locked right

home free

until i saw the small orange tip dance to life

home free

until I heard the cloves crackle

like people snapping their fingers all at once

I weaved my smooth web

explaining who, why, where

with deceitful expertise,

he just sat, smoking silently in the dark,

the tip glowing and fading with each breath

smoke sliding up and folding over itself

as it collided lazily with the ceiling

when my opus was finished

and the last lie fell on the floor with a dull

thud

he stood up silently, crushed his cigarette

and walked upstairs.

I stood petrified, fear and confusion

like clown makeup on my face,

and there I stayed until dawn

even now, sitting in the grass,

I never knew why he didn't speak.

Maybe knowing was enough, or maybe

it was some psych-babble trick he learned

watching Discovery channel between basement naps

The breeze and the sound of a pick-up playing Springsteen

shake me back and I look up to see my beer is gone

and the sun is slipping below the skyline

I light a cigarette,

hear the crackle, just like before,

I leave my beer on the marker