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 written word, all art, is dilation.
The dilation of perspective from one man.
This monocle is held up by others to clarify
or obscure certain facts (those reputed by the art
to exist).  The truth is represented by such an enormity
of various and independent viewpoints integral to one
another that it takes a rare individual indeed to
translate that into terms his compatriot may comprehend.
Or to put it more simply it offers a delicious pantheon
of opportunities to the amoral monster who would use
its malleability to cover his tracks
all in the name of "truth"...you see,
its so much easier to reach out and paint
with its diverse technicolor hues a scenario
directly related to you, i.e, covering your
tracks which after all are somewhat limited in
their complexity. How much harder it is
to have to attempt the reproduction of what
is actually happening, utilizing that same
myriad language. Get my drift?
I'd go so far as to say that by today's date--
January of 1998--the 'species' of such a man
has become extinct.
But not the force.