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The Lie
The lie is a simple thing
but difficult like a dragonfly
to hold.
Oil burns loosely
and gives way to the study of teeth.
A deck of cards
and a bug light
drank whiskey in the desert
near a pile of empty wallets –
and the Dow took note.
The lie is a simple thing
that is easy to say,
not so easy to read –
often with good manners
and good teeth.
dogs barking don’t lie
and birds don’t lie.
neither do the sun
nor a white moon.
But the spider’s trick
is to pretend
it does not exist.
Spiders come to every window and every doorway –
the lie is a simple thing.
The lie is a simple thing
and easy to use on your friends.
The lie is never (rarely) punished by jail.
Most good people tell
lies sometimes.
Prior to the mythology of serpents …
when was the first
lie?
The visible universe
is an entire deception
unto itself,
and lies are things
I say to myself.
(10.11.2010)
- Chris Hamilton
(featured in the poetry forum 12.11.10)
Localized war heroes
Localized war heroes
waving trumpets
and the velocity
of kings
do not lie under oath
of government
lie still like localized war heroes
buried at the gas station
next to the gum.
What happens when
the sun sets
on the sunsets
after the privilege
of watermelon
eyesight like tequila
flowers that burn
my peaceful world
and the subservient president
minding his own.
Down the street
the children were playing video games
in the front yard
of the home of the localized war hero.
I wrote the date
before it was written
and I play with
the flowers and the leaves of grass
from the silence
of my studio
where I am studious of myself.
Next to the dead
of my afternoon
I ask the evening to lie still
and stop the electricity
I carry
the power lines
and lightning
like pistols
and no one
has much to say
because I am me
me am not still
next to the radio
and the doubt of the dead
with the painted mask.
One painted mask
was a candle burning
drink
that burns in silence
growing sunlight –
let me be close to the thing
And then there were streetlights, newscasts,
and localized war heroes.
Several paintings
and a pencil
and a brick
and a polite death
push me
push me.
I am disappearing like fog light
next to the flame
the window
is jumping
and I am
close to where
the dog
lays down.
I have seen people and things
go near to death
and then return
burning candles
and laughing
at the life of the sun.
(8.19.2010)
- Chris Hamilton
(added 12.11.10)
until I read
a soft purple stone
or a newspaper,
watch the sunset
or stand on a mountain, I have nothing—
I am a wristwatch: monotone
and worse
I don’t have anything
to say
that hasn’t been said
within a day or two.
don’t toss coins into a lake.
don’t drink wine
from a coat pocket.
don’t walk with trees that are concerned.
who have you been talking to?
tell me what they said,
Tell Me!
of all the things
that come and go
you tell time the worst—
this has to change the way
that we think about things.
No duality.
the spirit of the wind
exists,
but not separate from the wind.
there is a door that is opening
and closing ceaselessly—
and I hear the same sound
from a candle
or a crowd of people
or a car passing.
or a wristwatch.
underminer of faith,
murderer of belief,
flower of wisdom,
drain the blood
from my legs
and replace it with sawdust
from before the fever
of the ocean.
how many times in a day
do I notice
the sound of my fingers?
I sit before a candle
consumed with the ticking of a wristwatch—
not images
but the fading of images.
and then my body becomes a bag—
I like to be free of it—but
I can’t seem to separate the two!
what happens to the song
of a bird
if there is no
bird?
this is a very complicated
question
and there are many wrong answers.
:be careful:
My wine glass is empty
and the wax of the candle
is my body melting,
beneath the flame
I am shadows
—and near proximity,
smaller than a room,
more quiet
and much closer to home.
(12.21.09)
- Chris Hamilton
(featured in the poetry forum 02.17.10)
alone time
my alone time
next to the candle
in darkness
is worth a universe
of televisions,
cocktail parties,
victories, triumphs,
recognition, acclaim,
acknowledgment,
or all the things you
sit in,
wear,
stare at,
eat,
or bow down to.
all of this disappears
when I am alone
next to the candle
in darkness.
(6.24.09)
- Chris Hamilton
(featured in the poetry forum 11.07.09)
Inside
Don’t know
what will come of all these
things, don’t know
pinwheel. I am
effervescent
and silent,
I do not radiate solitude
or stand still.
My tongue melts
and I am at liberty
to speak.
No one can say no
to this,
nowhere to stand
that you cannot hear me
I will not be painted,
by preconceptions or be subject
to textbooks,
no applause is necessary
to do with anything.
Your beloved expectation
makes me feel as though
I must force flame from my tongue
and fingertips.
Give me my room to myself
where I can be alone
next to the candle.
Bouncing a blue rubber ball
to waist height
and standing
what I can’t stand
or stand up to,
deep inside the universe
there is something
that does not go away
and cannot be distinguished
or extinguished.
Uncertainty, insincerity,
decoupling, lack of
purpose, subtle belonging,
quite traffic quiet jealousy,
and purple hatred.
Song that I cannot sing,
universe of what is not,
come to me dearly and kiss me,
tell me you love me.
The universe is not too much left of me.
8.10.09
- Chris Hamilton
(added 11.07.09)
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