by John. F. Buckley

“Run clever, run deep” shall be the whole
of the law. Whenever I can sell
or leverage, I con. Audience
asks, “Will the bullshitter always strew
a load? Tell us one more from the weight
in the back of your natty Levis.”

I can and do spin fibs and fables,
Tell tales about Cape Canaveral
after the shuttles left, split truth from
nape to navel, leaving it splayed on
the kitchen table, snot-nosed like some
baby momma begging me why, why
the alleged treachery, why offer
cold drama after the end of the
leers and the cheers and the lechery?

What can I say? Every trick ends.

Hirsute, balding Ásatrú troops
call me “Loki” as, though I look like
they do, I feast on blackberries too,
lie with brown fruit as well as peaches
pale with fluff, youths with cups for catching
Stuff, the venom poured by enemies,
hoping my lines are caught in their snares.
but while one lover cares, not a drop
hits an inch of raised traitorous flesh,
every dram they catch finally
feeding my verbal slickness, fueling
escapes and the tales of escapades
around my quick fickle caresses.

And so it begins again. Second
verse, akin to the first. Now refrain.

Raised in the Detroit area, JOHN F. BUCKLEY has lived in California since 1992. He teaches English at Orange Coast College and does some writing and editing on the side. Please get on his bandwagon now, while he’s meek and humble, before success rots his character and he explodes in a maelstrom of pie-hurling and self-aggrandizement.