Sonnet Crown 2

3/2/2014

58 (?) → 35 (falling) → 55 → 53.2 → 53 → 52 → 2 → 24 → 50 (the barmaid’s freckled hand) → 6 → 51 → before (15) → 59 → 57 (13 lies) → 72

“Without lies, none of us are beautiful.”

“Not me, him, not you, her, not us, us, / not love, love, not loss, loss, not bad, bad.”

You and I are two glasses of white rum,

and another curse or a second chance—

“Da-ding … lucky 7s, ding, jackpot”—

and a church basement or penthouse casino,

and wondering if this is the last stop

“to the Terra, where God only glances, / to lay us down to sleep when we are done.”

“Didn’t you come for trouble, and find it?”

The two of us aren’t sorry enough,

for “newer good lies,” to bury our kill,

to offer our hands, unlock the steeple,

put out the fire and drag out the people.

Didn’t you come for trouble, and find it? / Didn’t you wave to the twelve apostles? / To say goodbye or maybe ask which way, / to not a dozen but lucky thirteen, / to the baker’s gift of wanting too much? / Not what you asked for? Twelve blades and a razor? / Not what you wanted? The smooth touch, rough? / (I know you’re not sorry we’ve lost our way—that we’re children still walking upstream.) / Haven’t you and I seen the holiday? / Aren’t the guesses free from their bottles? / Isn’t it June, the year of Quezacotl? / Isn’t our best suit birthday and hazmat?

Warm from the cradle of God’s presence,

rushing in the breath of upper atmosphere,

first air, and inhalation, and welcome

to the Terra, where God only glances,

and remembers our names with detachment,

meeting our prayers with shattering glass,

in shards of sorrow and fleet fulfillment.

The sun is branded with our mortal cast, / flesh derided, bereft of time’s expanses, / made gentle to the lie and rolling drum, / and the trespass of the righteous in fear, / our brethren, banished to forbidden senses, / to the crime, delight, of the Godless trenches.

This way madness lies. This way madness lies, / in the blue volt of an hourly motel, / light of Tuesday’s ensemble for casket, / on starched sheets dishonored but still welcoming, / enseamed, lascivious, but maybe clean, / maybe a profession to the “orderlies.” / “Orderlies,” for the torn charade, in heap, / for the card you have, while they have the key, / for the ashtray tip you don’t think to bring, / for the paper slippers, left in plastic, / for knowing one doorway opens on hell, / for the front desk, stop watch, signature, price. / We lie mad in our bed, made free of lice.

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.

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. / Wouldn’t you rather have a fool, a clown, / than a bashful liar, faithless, untrue? / But actually, you’re crazy, aren’t you?

But actually, you’re crazy, aren’t you? / Aren’t you on the corner of the bed? / In the daylight. Saying I’d better hope / nobody comes in through the open door. / Your square glasses can’t hide your drifting eye, / and I know you’ve answered the call before. / “Lie to me, lie to me, lie to me bride.” / I can hear the rattling of the freight door. / I know you have a secret, bound in rope, / that the gold band on your hand, in your head, / is a knot around your finger, your youth. / What part could I have in this divine plan? / A liar, a liar, is a good man.

Tire me with white lies and petty pretty

complicity—we’ve never ventured far

from here, preferring civil to the city.

The summer streets don’t smell of death, and tar

crossed avowals on mortar and concrete

are dusted away by hairspray and money.

The women walk fast, low cut and high cleat—

and men turn their heads, eyes sunken and puny.

Point to me, starlet, with newer good lies;

watch my eyes receding, beady and dead.

Lie to me, lie to me, lie to me bride.

Gaze into the sockets of slime in my head.

We are all friendly and heavy with flesh. / Touch hands together, and pray we are blessed.

Smash smash smash, sex and half, sex and half. / Woman and a man, woman and a mask. / Crash crash crash, the lady’s in the trash. / Half half half half never shall it ask ask. / The luckless in life are lovers divine. / Win, win but God will take the loser’s side / and Venus will love the sick Saturnine, /and rub lessterlust the life satisfied.

Not me, him, not you, her, not us, us,

not love, love, not loss, loss, not bad, bad.

And it’s never never enough, enough.

What we have we had, and have and halve.

Never last, never last. Check out the trash. / Petty the inn and pity the cash.

Let me tell you what a liar I am

I’ll tell you right now, right here, everything,

or, well, I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t.

I’m more interested in you, anyway.

And isn’t it always there? In the tinkling

glasses, laughter, and the barmaid’s freckled hand?

Isn’t it the grail mix of the mixed drink?

A liar, a liar, is a good man.

These men with the porcelain on the quay, / are trusted all, never not innocent. / Who could love a man who won’t dance, won’t sing? / Trust a man who trails his bowels, who knows, / our little losses—just the cheer of crows.

Come to me like tomorrow to a child.

Like the day is cradle, blue world below,

to the misty, tussled dreams, half wild,

of cherished seraphs in cloudy furrows.

Like the dawn will wake us to memories

yet unknown, waiting in our baby brows.

Our lives of snow to fall upon the sea.

Our little losses just the cheer of crows.

Wake me, my sweet, to our pinky bodies,

like newborn pigs in sacks of spiky wheat.

Like she is, she is, she is she: a tease, / an angel, and a laughing whiskey neat.

Wake me, baby, from this too too solid dream. / Exit the woman, and enter, the steam.

Our little losses just the cheer of crows; / a laughing sheen on the face of the cliffs; / the wet limestone, gray and white, cold as eyes; / the still dance, wind, in wait, in praise of winter. / There’s no siren. There’s no siren, blowing. / We are given unto autumn’s bargain. / Our lives of snow to fall upon the sea. / Nobody turns back to home on the grange. / We are the break in years, the splinter / between December and January. / We’re the shaky step into the skiff. / We’re the five fingers in the puppet’s clothes. / We’re the promise. We’re what the liar knows.

Before, before, we are children afraid / of sleep, of the hallway behind the door. / To keep, to keep, we are bickering traders, / offering strong for weak, and peace for war. / Meek, meekly, while the choristers swing sweetly, / we weep at the ribbon of our one reward. / We cry beneath our mother’s hand, preening. / We vie to exhaust our contented steward. / And the pretty, pretty darkness is our / cooing, caressing, ever-hushing mum. / We cry in minutes, and she waits in hours, / to lay us down to sleep when we are done— / to dream the wordless weightless dreams of children, / to voice the voiceless, and sing among the wren.

Just a few minutes after eleven, / and I won’t be sorry until sunset, / when you have chased the horizon / into a black laugh and unblinking sleep. / My wishes scatter infinitive verbs, / cast to your feet like bruised wedding petals, / to your eyes looking, looking for the herd, / afraid that you girls—you woman, / you—have strayed too far on legs too weak. / What will we two knead? The flour and leaven, / in a kitchen where the sun rays no debt, / where we are not (s)old, and we are not burned. / You girls. You. What happens if you don’t turn?

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 live heart, hopping 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.