A journal of narrative writing.
Another Machine to Praise



I might lie to you the way 
Wood lies, growing darker
Like a coastal edge receding 
Over the earth‘s  curve.

At this desk boredom is a fire.
I might light a wooden dog on fire 
To praise your Beauty which is illegal 
In the country of my brain-pan 
Where dictators follow easily each other 
Soft and large and prone to sweat.

One pretended he was blind. 
I might lie to you again, cleanly, 
Or tongue the armor of a tank. 
In either case, an incurious compass 
That aligns the various fractures. 

And if I lie to you, what then, what tools 
Do we need to save the carousel, 
The hammered lion, to feed him 
With our hands. I might wish to hold 
You before the trumpets
And later the skyline. 
I might lie to you about a childhood 
When I drank from a creek 
Because I was far from home.

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