Strange Leaf

“Strange Leaf” is a piece of poetry about multiple subjects. The largest topics addressed are the intelligence community and the various three-letter agencies, such as the CIA, FBI, NSA, DOD, CSS, DNI, and DHS.

“Strange Leaf” by Kevin Trent Boswell

All of the terminology used in this piece comes directly from historical examples of real-life spies and intelligence officers from US agencies, as well as the Brits, Germans, and French.

If you search any of the terms you hear in this poem and add the words “spy terms,” you’ll gain a much deeper insight into what I was getting at in the piece.

I wrote this poem sometime during 2020, leading up to the election. Not long after that, I recorded it as spoken word and set it to background music.

After January 6th, 2021, and the assault on the Capitol Building, I compiled a montage of photographs of events from the history of the United States that depict the famous and infamous acts of our three-letter organizations, alongside pictures of world conflicts and the recent madness inflicted upon America by the cult of MAGA.

I had shared the video here once before. However, it didn’t receive as many views as I had hoped for, and today, “Strange Leaf” is more relevant than ever.

One of the (much smaller) minor themes in this work is tobacco’s role in American culture, hence the title, “Strange Leaf.”

My family farmed tobacco and other crops for decades before they eventually moved away from farming. In the 1990s, I assisted my father in tearing down three tobacco-drying barns he had helped his father build as a young man.

America’s history is based on crops like tobacco, which were raised and harvested by slaves and indentured white servants. Some of my ancestors were indentured servants.

In spy circles, sharing a cigarette or a pipe was a regular method of “developing an asset.” The daily routine of “stepping out back for a smoke” offered the perfect opportunity to have a private conversation with someone and find out about them, learn their true allegiances, and ascertain their weaknesses for potential exploitation.

Today, intelligence officers’ methods have changed, both in the field and in the analyst round-rooms at Langley. The terms they use for keeping secrecy have evolved to keep pace with changing times and environments.

However, the basic principles of spy work, known as tradecraft, are the same. The basic premise is that there are always governments ruling over citizens.

Every government on Earth has an intelligence agency comprising many data collectors, data analysts, and field agents.

The size of the nation in question is of little concern. For example, Israeli intelligence is Mossad, and that is one of the most elaborate, effective, and widespread groups on the planet.

We see how Israel is currently acting with impunity against Palestine. Their success is directly attributable to Mossad’s efficiency.

We now live in a post-Patriot Act world where everything is monitored, recorded, and tightly controlled. Understanding the history of our intelligence community and how it operates today has never been more critical.

For anyone who is interested in the print version of this poem, I published it in my book remission, available on Amazon.

Hay Day

I tasted your harvest
Held you in the fall
I heard the strange changes
Saw no one at all

The tea leaves aren’t telling
The wax drips no words
The chords are atonal;
They’re not stacked in thirds

Hey, hey, hey
Play in the hay day
Swallow the bruises
The pain goes away

Hey, hey, hey
Today is a school day;
Just as tomorrow,
And every other day, too

Wheels will slow down,
And hammers go fall
The chains all fall off
There’s no reason to call

A mouth slams shut
For lack of a solver
Birdcage flies open
A willful revolver

Hey, hey, hey
Make rain on a sun day
All the swallows got bruises
A rose fades away

Hey, hey, hey
Today is a school day;
Just as tomorrow,
And every other day, too

I screamed at the empty
You clawed at the door
We kindled a fire
And burned out the floor

Pleading with empty
We gnawed a bit more
We ate the inferno
Lost sight of the score

There’s always more learning
What was already known
Lessons learned again
Are again to be shown


©2025 Kevin Trent Boswell

Little Despot

Empty-headed blood scepter
Rails on about rights and privileges

But the angel-faced baboon
Will have none of it

Garrison bone hides
Rancid jowls in its ivory jar

Circus clown juggler
Tilts at the mills of wind,
Falls of water, and the
Endless static screen

Burn all that useless crap
In the trash barrel
Out back

Reach in the candy dish
And pull out a fresh squid

This tiny line of chalk
Guides the anchor to its resting place

Cranial trauma
This, too, shall never pass

But the not-subsiding
Should subside
Within a few thousand years or so

Your head only hurts because
We’ve removed it;
Imminent domain

The lumpy piece of flesh
That used to be inside of it
Is now an air freshener
Hanging from the rear view mirror
In the Devil’s Cadillac

He says it reminds him of home

One last thing,

Please sign here:

—————————————————


©2025 Kevin Trent Boswell

encroaching

that taste
will not always
haunt the lips

or will it?

it is certain that
other hungers
will swarm the palate
and strangle
the familiar flavor

or is it?

the trail is littered
with the swollen corpses
of fabled monsters
and brittle heroes

the valley is cursed
and the sky is burnt

hedgerows of thorn bushes
quietly weep blood
in the shadows

they sing mournful songs
of blistered eyes,
salted fields full of silk roses,
wolfsbane and hellebore,
the broken teeth of clockwork dolls,
and a thousand crushed hearts
of little bluebirds
overflowing from the
mortar and pestle

beckoning mirage,
a courtyard fountain
that sprays only gossip,
a wishing well
of screaming sad sirens,
hungry to drown
all careless passersby

my history’s pages
are all made of dust

the cap is of old tile,
the gown is a shroud,
and the tassels are all
desiccated worms

guts of tapioca
and bones of papier-mâché

any junior scout
with a compass and a crayon
could’ve easily mapped out
my imminent demise

it would have
saved a great deal
of yet more useless time
had I set my fool’s course
directly for the rocks,
instead taking such
a circuitous route

surely, this was
how I stumbled;
once, at least

craving the honorifics
of a conqueror,
a king

chasing wispy legends,
a haunted city of gold
that lay in the heart
of an untamed jungle
on a remote little island
only rumored to exist

a gnarled patch of land
that only surged up
from deep ocean trenches
in the craven imaginings
of a syphilitic madman

a derelict scoundrel
who scrawled dark heresies
onto pages of black dust
in an ink made from octopus,
the dried blood of
slaughtered griffins,
slain wyverns,
and fallen angels

an El Dorado of oblivion,
always just over the horizon
swelling in the overheated
cranium of a lunatic
drunk on malaria
and a dry, bitter wine
made from red poison berries

any wobbly toddler
could have rightfully discerned
that it was only a cruel game of
peek-a-boo and goodbye

the face keeps disappearing,
disappointing, disapproving,
and daily disavowing

and never allowing
deeper mysteries
to be known

any toy soldier could have
made short work
of my defenses

the walls of my fortress
were destined to fail
and crumble
and be swallowed up
by the ruthless, ever-empty,
ceaseless cravings
of jaws that lust
for everything
and nothing

any busted clock
could have
told the tale
of how I was
out of time
before I ever
began

of how I would,
without doubt,
be swept from the decks
of the good ship of memory,
into the raging sea

it has always been a given,
that I would be erased
from the blackboard of thought,
and cast out of
the picture

it was always
understood,
a given,
a known

or was it?


©2025 Kevin Trent Boswell

Not Yet a Yearling

I.

Stumbling as we tumble down
From the decks above

Let’s spill some fledgling blood
On this virgin ground

Consecrate this sacred land
With sweet, sugary death

Dried up vestige of arterial lineage,
Like blackstrap molasses

A batch of fattening confections
In entropy’s galley

The host will have their way

The menu is set;
No substitutions

II.

Everything has lost its flavor

All of the dialogue and costumes
Receding into the background,
Lost amid aimless clamoring
For the awareness of others

A thousand colors
And two sizes

Seduced by the sidewalk,
Let us earn our wings,
And fly

The problem is clear
So, clear the table
Table the discussion
Discuss a potential agreement
Agree to the terms
Terminate the problem

The surgeon calls out sick

The sickness calls out
For a bone saw, scalpel, retractor,
And suction

Triage is a red carpet buffet
Of wide-eyed inspiration

For a man with no appetite,
You certainly are hungry

This one isn’t going to make it;
That frame will collapse
As soon as boots hit the floor

You gonna eat that?
It’s just going to spoil if you don’t;
These things have no shelf life

There is no point to any of it, anyway

So much more prudent
Than all this senseless striving

Everyone knows
It is not the guest
Who decides
What’s for supper

The table is already set…

Sit down and eat

Your loss

III.

Spill some for yourself
While you have the chance

Freshen your gunpowder

Powder your nose

Sanctify this unholy,
Godless parcel of dirt
With a little spritz
Of sweet annihilation


©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell

Downstream

The merciful tyrant
Unwittingly enslaves himself
Head chained to a stone,
A fraction of an inch
Above the grinding wheel

Sweat pours off the brow,
Enough to fill an empty chalice,
The kind of cup that one might
Craft by hand, and set apart
Solely for use in special feasts,
Feasts that never took place
Except in the mind

A mind that now rots
Inside a bone cell,
Cuffed by steel bands
To a stone tablet,
Where it struggles to
Hold itself up,
Away from the wheel,
Less than a tired wink of sleep
Below

How it all occurred is
A promethean comedy of errors

An artificial notion became planning;
Plans inched stealthily forward,
Advancing toward schemes,
Where the schemes beget a clusterfuck,
And the clusterfuck exploded
Into a bucket of shit and
A bathtub of tears

I have wasted the infinite scream

That spectacular spectacle
Of standing above the relenting chasm,
In the assumption of a god form
And a triumphant rush of endorphins

Being full of such arrogance
As to declare oneself a great thing

It is but the backsplash
Of crashing waves,
The backdraft of a conflagration,
The hammer claw that slips carelessly
Off of the head of the nail, and
Slaps back hard into the face of
The one who holds the hammer,
The swirlies of high school bullies

Proverbial pissing
Into a primordial storm

Hubris, personified

The Devil laughs hardest
At we mortals
Who merely dabble
In part time blasphemy

He is quick to show us
Who invented the game,
And who we should call “El Jefe”

His pool cue is the stolen staff of Moses

He chalks it with dust
From the tombs of martyrs

He runs the table every time,
Right from the break

Casually leans back and smiles,
Lights a cigarette, and
Does his best Marlon Brando,

“Rack ‘em up, boys. Double or nothin’.”


©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell