Poetiquette

Been thinking about liars alot.
It sux.
People who don't lie,
don't expect it.
Liars tell lies
as easily as
other people tell the truth
because it's the same thing to them.
And people believe them
because they aren't expecting it.
Like if someone were to say to you
about a stranger,
"See that guy there?
He has a twin
and he likes oranges"
and then go on about their business,
for the rest of your life,
you would think that
random guy had a twin and likes oranges
somewhere in your brain.
And if you saw that guy again,
you would probably think
"Oh, that's the orange guy with a twin"
But you don't know that guy.
Truth is...
he's an only child with a thing for bananas.
And why on earth would someone lie about that?
But it's as simple as that.
Liars lie,
it's what they do,
Say it, and it's true.

I knew this guy once in college.
I do not know him anymore,
and have no idea where he is
or what he's doing
but he was really smart
(and really cute too!)
He broke up with his girlfriend
and we were talking about it
(we were church friends).
He told me he had found out that she
had lied about something.
He didn't tell me what
and it didn't matter,
because this is what he said:
"If someone tells you everything about
their life, and it's true
but tells you their favorite color is pink,
when it's really green,
you don't know that person,
because the person YOU know
has all these aspects to them
AND their favorite color is pink,
but THIS person's favorite color is green,
so it's a different person
than the person you thought you knew".
I have never forgotten him saying that.

Another reason I have never forgotten him
is because he wrote one of my two favorite
pieces of poetry EVER.
By anybody at any time.
The other one is
Edna St. Vncent Millay's "Renascence",
so this is BIG company.
I knew the title was "In The Playground"
and could almost remember all of the lines
but since I lost all my belongings
over a year ago
I was afraid it was gone forever.
My only copy of it was a poetry
magazine that we both had pieces
published in.
Mine was FAR inferior
and was editted for content
in the conservative south,
and was even worse upon printing,
but at least being published
in that magazine allowed me to find
his piece.
Thankfully, this little
dog eared magazine was one of
the things I recovered.
Scott, where ever you are,
I'm gonna post "In The Playground" here,
it's just too damn good to not do it.
People,
THIS IS A BRILLIANT PIECE OF WRITING:
---------------------------------------

IN THE PLAYGROUND
by Scott Nichols

I Am
Disposable, reusable,
I am treasured, I am throw away
a sea of concrete and waves of overpasses;
the never ending roadway
drug induced, impaired, involved;
strung out like signs along the highway
the one in charge
the man with a gun
and things will go my way
the tear that paths your cheek
for the followers who'll be cried
hammer in hand, splinter in eye
the double crosser and the crucified
the catastrophe on the 5 o'clock news;
the slowly dying and the mangled
the knot in the rope
in your lifeline of hope
and I cannot be untangled
the bottle floating in the currents
with the secret to success
your crackling thirst
and your cannabalistic hunger
all alone in my wilderness
the light that calls the curious
to their hot and voltaged answer
the slow gnawing of your weaking bones
the malignancy of cancer
the finger that flicked the gas
blowing kisses perfumed with death
burned and dispersed in the wintry air
by the chimney's smoky breath
the twists in your guts
and the pain in your legs
the moment your race has begun
the gravelly voice on the end of the line
with news of the death of a loved one
Death beneath a forgotten cemetery
where you're about to break ground

I'm a beam of darkness
Mean as children
And you are in my playground.

- Scott Nichols
-----------------------------------------

Whew.
Wow.