For my enemies,
I write
in glitter pen
in my fashion

notebook.
A snowy
field
to fill

with
quaint
bad wishes,
recipes

for deadly 
dishes,
poisonous
encounters.

The diary
of my meanness
scours
me hollow,

clean
to go about
my smiling
business—

nodding always
ohyesohyes.
I’m such
a pleasure

to be around
when
I can tattoo 
pages

at my leisure,
the fine
bland 
eggshell

of their weave
struck through
with cursing
syllables.

No tongue,
no sound,
just prim
impressions

of nib
on sheet,
my negative
capability

in fat,
hollow Os,
sharp As,
the elbowed

zones
of letters
shaped 
to take 

my meaning.
Pencils down.
In my
outer seeming

I’m mild,
kind,
inscrutable.
So I’ll remain—

primed
by what 
these pages
can sustain.