the poem i've been meaning to write

Embers.
A silly word embellished by centuries of alliteration,
finance and and rolling over rates.
Swaps and fixed income:
words we hear

sunday, even.

The stub in my hand smells of derivatives.
Foreign to others my association be heard
my alliteration be stirred.

Move me to write
letters on sweat-stained keyboards.

I have a vision,
and within my fortunes flourish,
I writhe with audacity
I writhe with intellect
I writhe with authoritarian concept
I write with deceit.

This was not the plan for me.
I was born,
bred,
and determined to be creative.

I was honed to a sharp tool
disseminated to an alternative rule.

Was this the weave I was borne cite?
I claim the words I write.
I own the keys I type.

I revel--
in the underdog.

we did it

Well, this Burning Green Notebook has been started on fire.

It starts here, and it starts now... Anonymous posts from an anonymous crew. It's really that simple.


We've quit smoking and taken up writing. We need to blog, it's therapeutic, and we're not about to stop.