the unprinted poem

You’ll never see this printed on a page.

That sort of thing,

     I’m told

belongs to an earlier age.

Nothing I can write

     is worth the paper or the ink.

The things I think

     should be in print

are but a blink in this electronic wave.

(c) 2008 henry toromoreno



Pseudonym and Alias

alias and pseudonym

Alias and Pseudonym

met in secrecy

Pseudonym told Alias,

“I hear you tried to pass as me.”

“Ridiculous”, said Alias,

“That rumor is absurd.

The truth my friend

is more different than

anything you’ve heard.”

“Just recently,” said Alias,

“someone employed me,

to obfuscate, then recreate,

their identity.”

“So what,” said Pseudonym,

“I thought that was our job,

we’ve been doing this for quite a while

we both know it’s not hard.”

“That’s not the point,” said Alias,

“when I walked in the room,

they turned to see, that it was me

and called me, “Nom, de plume”

Said Pseudonym, now reticent,

That name belongs to me.

It’s French my friend, a moniker

that suits me quite sublimely.”

“May I suggest,” said Alias,

“though it may be a pain,

that from now on, we correspond

but take on different names.”

© 2008 henry toromoreno