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.


When Late The Book Reads You

It was when the twi edge started talking back that I began to first suspect.
That I was not a mental reject, just crazy. And not the normal crazy we're
all clocking in at. Lord god it's obvious our existence alone is fundament-
ally wack. But when my own knife glints at me from the shadow of the alley
way I'm treading, I need to know is it street or moon lamp light that it's
shedding. Easily I see best by starlight, revealer of the smallest details.
I thought I caught a whispered hush slip from my angled dagger's tip,
as I raced head low and long through the night wind. The haft held firm
in my right hand's grip as twilight across the tilted edge licked and winked.
A missive to stay taut and not dismiss immediateness.
We are at our most focused when someone makes a target of us.
We whose aim is relaxation. How easily I laughed at this, then.
When late the book read me, and not the other way around.
When it was I that the book had found. . .