'All I post are selfies and spilled ink, and those aren’t too easy to distinguish from one another.'Oh noetry. Photosets. Ask me something interesting.
"I’ll see you later?" asks his voice, a husk
of heavy morning languor on his throat,
the question not forthright as bed sheet musk
by which I was not smitten, though it smote.
Myself, I do not answer with a word,
but bend my neck to him and nod my head,
an answer steeped in honesty, immured
in silent fleshly faith, in false words’ stead.
But really, can I claim more honesty,
retreating from uncertain words, and lies,
when even now I write pert poetry
that, more than any lie, must be devised?
Well, no. We’re both bilingual, he and I.
Or even more than that: we switch between
the silent and the voiced, both truth and lie.
Can we ourselves know all of what we mean?
A word is truth in mouth, but lie in ear,
for what one says, the other does not hear.
Claudio, Much ado about Nothing
Machiavelli The Prince
Carla Jean Moss
No Country for Old Men