You seem to have it in for me
and by my life, from you I flee.

Now I know I give you fits
because I chew your books to bits.

And eat them do I ever, man
the cloth and paper, leather tan.

It’s food to me, these tomes you love
that in my hungry mouth I shove.

How is it you can sit and look
for hours at a tasty book?

It’s three A.M. and still you read
please hurry, I’ve got kids to feed.


Long Story Short

A crow flying sideways
could tell how long a day is
(his story flies away from itself
in what they call an arc)

and be finished by nightfall
not a minute too soon.

A songbird flying off-season
could routinely spark an epoch
(North and South share a pole but
West and East long for one another
across oceanic heartbreak)

her call notes sound doubtful
among the mute landmarks.

A raptor flying furlongs
could spot the edge of a breath
(an air exhaled and sulking above
the roulette tables like a hungry compass)

staking the plots and divisions
that were so hard won.

2017 #MeToo Haiku Revue


    each conquest a brick
    now tied to his flabby neck
    long walk on short pier


    as young as they were
    he felt they were old enough
    and we do mean felt


    the king of standup
    single handedly ruined
    all self pleasuring


    he read Lolita
    as a self-help dating guide
    Alabama rules

Hang Loose, the Bathrobe Cinches of Destiny

like peace in the Middle East
sleep seems a remote possibility

the hospitalized dim of my bedroom
has lost all interest in color
(I know the feeling) and
shows signs of developing fog

illuminated by a laptop screen
a weak glow, folding sickly shadows
into their hiding places
among the clutter: I am awake

(though not awake in the Buddhist
sense, alas, luckless pilgrim
it’s the other kind of awake
the kind that taunts your desire
to be asleep) but wait
here comes darkness, as if to mock
my wired-wide dog-barking brain

—the idling display has timed out

sucking the tween appearance of
the room right out of my eyes
and into its greedy dark
little screen, snatching away
what my reasonless eyes had
set their sights upon

my bathrobe hanging from a hook
on the wall by the closet, with its
long flannel waist-cinch dangling
from a couple of droopy side loops
like hanged men, or drape cords
(innocent, in other words)

side by side, hanging as they are
loose, no orders to follow, fretless
the robe doors open to the night, and
the destiny of a naked, sleepless
man is his alone to ponder
as they now slumber

Film Haiku No. 3

Rounders (1998)
Matt Damon, Edward Norton, Gretchen Mol, #spoilers


a dodgy friendship
ensnared by his loyalties
missteps and hard knocks


an interest in law
interferes with his calling
this hold’em genius


Teddy’s cookie tells
that ace could not have helped him
he flops a nut straight


I wonder what it is
that the biosphere intends
when this happens: twins

then I realize
as I butter my toast
that nature, motherly, stern
she intends nothing at all
at most

no agenda, but
churn and do, and redo
with a twist and like
the chop and pan-rattle
of us rustlers in the kitchen

she’s up and at’em
before a morning thought
can get his shoes on