Notice:

This poem and any of its niggling
associations are confidential
until spoken or broadcast
as song is upon air, as seed is upon dirt
freshly graded and all subsequent
germ is intended solely
for the use of the intended recipient
and his/her therapist, kitty
or BFF. If you are not
the intended et al., enjoy the gift
as one would the shiny presence
of a toddler hawking uncanny expressions
resembling those of an adult
whose bowels have become
slightly irritated. With this you should not
consult deities as they’ve shown a history
of elusiveness. Never retransmit
in whole, but rather, convert
with a nod for utilitarian design
and control. For examples see this
and all major religions. Paint not
from these words any distillation
or treatise heretical. Indulge
technology at your own risk.
If you think these machines know
more than we think, you’re wrong
if only for this moment.
If you have received this poem
in error, please describe the error
in concrete and/or erotic language
and append said description
including any and all illustrations,
in color and sound,
to everything you can get your
paws on. Please note that
if this message contains other
deeper, velvety soft messages
tongue-like and biting,
or if this is a reply to a prior message,
you’re likely dealing with the sanest
being on the planet.
Hug pork, but know that
contents of this poem
or revolutionizing dry-cleaning
notions may not have been
produced by the sender.
This notice is automatically forgotten
to each reader. Remember that
and thank you.

Scott M. Bade is a doctoral student at Western Michigan University. His poems have appeared in Fugue, Night Train, H_NGM_N, and others.