Get-Me-Down Suits

The Wright Lab made ‘em
So you could fly high,
Not burst, not pool blood,
Not black out—come down
And land, no harm done.

Air is thin up there
And too cold for apes.
Long johns, two-piece mesh
Suits on top, cooled air
Low, then warmed air high,

Saved lives. They were snug,
Too snug to walk in
Or wear with no help,
But they made a step
To space and the moon.

Oh, let’s find a trope—
Let’s have some fun, yeh?
Fixed verse, rhymed—leu, clus,
Long chains of set words—
The get-me-down suits

Of bards. You aim high,
Make the task too hard,
Try to climb half way
To the moon and get
Back down with some sense

Left. Look what we did!
Thin-shelled and raw eggs
Of thoughts shot in nets
Float down to the ground
And bounce. No harm done.

Pleached Hedge

You should build a house like that,
Rooms in the gaps—live like birds,
Safe from cats. Weave a tight roof

From live limbs, let them rub up,
Rub off bark, each grow with each,
And then lie down in the dark,

Dry shade that you have not made
But helped, helped to make—bent, steered,

You might say—and let raw growth
Take care of the rest. That’s all
You have to do to get us

To grow a green room or two,
To grow our green rooms for you.
Pleach these lines; we’ll cinch the rest.

Long Long Con

Start with the truth. Strip bare.
Once you get down to skin
Flayed in cold winds, you’ll see

That’s not the truth you meant.
You’re shamed, cold, and in pain,
And for what? To draw stares?

Say, To hell with the truth.
The truth can take its stares
And fuck them in the eyes.

From now on, you’ll tell lies.
Tell them well. Lay lies on
Thick. You’ll start to feel sick

And slow from the hot weight
Of those, your well-faked clothes.
Crawl off to a dark place

Where no one can see you.
Strip once more. That’s the truth
You want, or more like it.

Make a heap of your lies.
Take the best few. The rest,
Sell for thrift—new to you!