by Henry Burt Stevens
Those who wish to spread untruth
shouldn't be able to get away with it.
Everything is known because all thoughts
are transmitted. They escape through the
hair into the air. These are the light lies,
heavier ones-belly lies-move slower, yet surely.
If all truth is available to everyone how do we get fooled?
Slight of hand is one way. Look here; no over there.
The lie might start in a dark room, maybe it's a bright room
of colors; covers the lie. The piano is
playing loudly, the transmitter works,
the receivers fail. I lied once,
it started a downpour, a tornado.
The only way I could stop it was to
crack my nuckles and promise
never to do it again.