14.4.14

truth



--  I already got the mail

--  I figured you had    he had already doublechecked it unknown to her  

Why did he do that
Why did he deceive her what was the point of lying
What  ever  is the point of lying
What was that edge one thought they gained by lying

Because                                                                                                                                          
when a lie is discovered
and its when not if       eventually peering out of some innocuous remark
a gilded hair in the ointment lipstick on a cigarette butt or dark coffee cup crystal glass
then every word ever uttered                                                                                                          
is suspicious

Truth was                                                                                                                         
his vigor and power wasnt in words or argument                                                            
not psychology

it lived in his physicality                                                                                                    
his brawn deceptively hidden under conservative clothing and manners

on the very rare occasion he plucked a fib   he wondered how it was she didnt hear its bottlerockets wick hiss smell burning sulfur or it zip whisk away up into the tree 
canopy and burp
                                    catch that firefly on its erratic   surly   rudderless flight
Truth was                                                                                                                           
he didnt have the capacity or patience to braid lie upon lie twisting it into something that could withstand a shift in weight or desultory scrutiny  

Truth was                                                                                                                          
the truth

1524,  Saturday,  12  4. 14

13.4.14

windmill



. . . it wasnt a windmill . . .

it wasnt a windmill with the sun crowded in its center like a patient yellow spider waiting                                                                                                                                 
poised
lazy arms scarcely turning
                                          shivering                                                                                
piquing prey                                                                                                                                   


this spider eats birds
                               murdering  -  bloody murder -  their murmuration  one starling at a time                                                                                                                                   shrouding                                                                                                                                   casking                                                                                                                                   mummifying  sans canopic jars                                                                                                  
parts scattered mell pell                                                                                                                  
                                                shes evidently a lousy housekeeper or carelessly   or birds 
cant recognize muss or fallen avian remains



. . . no . . . it wasnt that . . . it wasnt a windmill . . .



but thats where ones imagination plays riot
                                                                                                                  
                                                                                                          he was wrapped 
but in bedsheets                                                                                                                                 and she had gone over him like four famished women picking his bones clean

he begged for more as she daubed the corners of her mouth with the thumb knuckle of 
her small fist

over its clenchness she smiled slyly                                                                                              
and pleased

she rocked forward over her folded legs  balancing deftly on her knees  her breasts trembling counterweights  and sighed
                                                               Youre never satisfied
                                                                                                     And you are
                                                                                                                              No  But 
we werent talking about me
We werent talking
No  We werent were we     she smiled lavishly
Com ere
No more talking
Braille

on her knees akimbo she strutted  her nipples pointing her way  then straddled his 
thigh                                                                                                                             moist                                                                                                                                
she laid hands on his chest as he pulled her into him    and pinched him playfully

as their mouths sought each other he returned a pinch  by a degree more terse 
she gasped in his mouth                     



overhead   the fan lazed on the evening breeze coming through the screened window 
and their oblivious pants



Wednesday,  19  3. 14