The truth is, I only tell 13 lies.
Lie no. 2: I lie in praise of heaven.
Three: this is between just the two of us.
Four: in the silence we share, we are whole.
Yes, I heard you (five), I was listening.
Of course it matters to me.  Very much.
No, it doesn’t bother me, it’s nothing.
Da-ding … lucky 7s, ding, jackpot.
For every lie, I’ll give you a nickel.
A lie is a man’s heart, pumping in dust.
Just a few minutes after eleven.
You and I, we are a dozen goodbyes.
A better lie is a fountain of youth.
Without lies, none of us are beautiful.



Why would I lie when I can just be wrong?
I’ve fallen off course, drifted from orbit.
I’m here, paddling, pushing off the stray neutrinos,
casting excess weight out of the airlock,
asphyxiating and decompressing,
but more afraid of the nearing planet,
Earth, mundane, mud dispelled from Saturn’s rings,
to the sun, as soulless as a magnet,
cracked, tossed in dust, in sorrow’s second look,
made know noledgeable of the know nown.
as bereft of birth’s promise as spit.

The stars, stars, while we find the long way down.
What better invitation to the ice?
This way madness lies.  This way madness lies.


Once a week, the PEN Poetry Series publishes work by emerging and established writers from coast to coast. Subscribe to the Poetry Series mailing list and have poems delivered to your e-mail as soon as they are published (no spam, no news, just poems). We hope you like the pieces we find as much as we do, and pass them on.