Books by Iona of Shelter Island

Iord is I ored somewhere down the line in steel, in iron. Iord is I spoke, I speak, I am complete. I think as a treat. My spokes have become sharp as I bark for I am nothing but a dog, the husky of the Laird, on a jog across landmasses as they pass, I am have become a bard of the hard coming on marred. My books are dissertation pieces proving the words we choose have come from our hometowns and not the Latin. As I research the evidence builds of a hijacking in meaning, in phonetic clones, and subverted innuendo. I trace history, I trace man, I trace psychology and I trace science as a complete logical combine piece. I might be tracing time.