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.


Dog-eared Gone It, We Don't Want It

"Printed books will always be greater than their electronic imitators."
Yeah, and boiled roots taste better than deep fried french potaters.
Old hoots will always come easier to aging dogs faced with new tricks.
Moldy roots are out of fashion; that's why today we prefer gel caps.

Rotary dials will deliver us smiles over em crowdedtogether buttons,
landlines should suit us fine, there's no need to carry phones with us.
Answering machines really are keen, we hate to respond on the run--
we prefer getting so many messages, and deleting them one by one.

A written letter by longhand's better, we miss the taste of our stamps.
Not to mention the price: no, it wouldn't be nice if it were revamped
to be done free on the internets electronically. Pencilling our address
in by hand is so much more rewarding--begone foul spirit of technology:

we simply can't afford it. We've chosen exorcism to ward it away,
the recitation of our habits, with habits we shun it completely,
with habits we remain in the nunnery, you know what they say--
old habits die hard, thanks, but we prefer to just play in the yard.

Cut to the chase, its a race between youth and those already ahead.
They've a fresh start, and the best part is, the rest are nearly dead.
One deep breath of a leatherbound book: you having trouble hearing?
What binds us instead of a world-wide-web?
We're almost in the clearing.