I have no tolerance for lies, she said.
Appropos that at the moment I felt
the ink squirt as the slimy ooze
wriggled away in a black storm. What?
I lie all the time, including this
one time I met Hemingway at the hallway
and he pointed a gun just for fun.
Why? There having no great truth
thronging the waves right now.
Just a haul of shrimps pink in
the sun as we trotted out barefoot,
he and I, and then afterward we
beached on a rock looking up, free
of turbulence, at the voodoo moon.