I am the liar’s lips.
That is to say, I flap
with abandon and incommodious spittle.
Wind so breathy and unwelcome,
can you feel
that orious chill on your skin?
Take a drag of the breeze like
a Virginia Slim, smells like
how a sponge feels.
Moves like
old people walking.

In Yukon, Alaska, pretty Andy sings the same.
My Grandmother, a saint, has a lawnchair
Andy used to sit in.
Serendipity like a whiskey slap.

Pause here, the river runs
darker at the delta.

My couch is tainted as a raven,
claws stuck in straw.
I jump out a picture window
and smack that raven in his face-
how dare he talk about me like that?
And I, the Liar, hit the pavement.
It plays like Jazz-
another winter, it’ll be the opera.

Fact is, in a town like Poughkeepsie,
there are no free shoes,
and the ones I own aren’t-
purple.
Que sera sera.