A notebook bulletin board
tacked on when randomly bored
applied thoughts in a scribblebook
open for the world to look who passes by
so fast to see like a needle in a haystack we
safely stash those innermost secrets thought to be
at least you see languishing up and into pristine
blossoms for you to pick and sniff and hope
they don't make you sick.



The promotion of intellectual crime
by way of tanno-gallate of iron,
with gum arabic and water, used to
facilitate the infection of idiocy

may have transmogrified through
various properties and incantatory
rituals, from ink to email, but
the function remains the same, to make

reputations, and unmake them; to blacken
them or to make them white.
The caustic quest is to burn
these stories into the mind's eye.

Imperial associations are gradually corroded.
With these staves the music is woven with which
we charm the serpents of iniquity from guarding
our enemies' treasure. That being their secret identity.



  1. Love you too hunny.

    By the way:

    the above poem "Ourselves."
    is dedicated to the memory
    of Ambrose Bierce.