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Expected to know
all the dishes, servers eat
the entire menu.
At the interview
J’s hired on the spot, full of
new employee glee.
Has it really been
a month since I told you all
about my day, dear?
Formally over
twelve years of learning to look
good on this one night.
Deciding who to
take like negotiating
Mideast peace treaty.
In it she was arm
candy, someone that turned heads
unexpectedly.
The play was about
them. His unrequited love
her indifference.
Earthworms emerge, splayed
across sidewalks, tender skin
snags on rough concrete.
Our longer springtime
walks knock him out. There he lies
fat happy fur child.
Who will you be, and
from where? What will have brought you
here - mere chance or choice?
He tours in a case
like an aged Ken, “mint in box”
they’d say on eBay.
All around it, the
town is dead. Pity the poor
taken investors.
A romantic name
for a seagull poop splashed walk
among spray and rocks.
A schoolteacher in
a barrel did what no man
could - lived to tell it.
Our waitress admits
the town has its share of ghosts.
We sleep with lights on.
Just water on rock.
And yet, sheer power compels
visitors to gape.
An unexpected
crocus emerges, smiling
from a brown leaf pile.
My weirdness is as
apparent in my kids as
streaks in a fake tan.
Like cows with their cud
we would chew constantly, and
then we’d all swallow.
From a Revealing
start to this auspicious point -
my life in short form.
An adult blankie.
To take one from its owner
will make grown men cry.
not sure what’s so fun
about a day when we’re all
afraid we’ll get punk’d
When I stay up late
my thoughts move oddly like lab
mice stunted by drugs.
Vegans, stay away,
lest your firm resolve melt from
tender smoked brisket.
Haiku, like bonsai,
needs care and pruning. A mind
unfocused kills both.
Incrementally
I clean unearthing a clear
space on the table.
Wan, pale, red-eyed, she’s
the poster wife of Wynette’s
song, “Stand By Your Man.”
When a righteous man
is caught with his pants down, it’s
likely he’ll get spanked.
Unaware of her
beauty, unselfconsciousness
gives each movement grace.
Heating system dust -
particles of previous
occupants’ lives, selves.
From an estate sale -
pendulum clock. Westminster
chimes now count my days.
Emily Bronte * labored quietly but I * scream “Here are my words!”
It’s said women swoon
at his rallies, yet his wife
once called him stinky.
It’s fun to see what
it’s like and then go back to
being nobody.
Tourists whisked to the
top while on tenant floors, one
hears “shhhhhhsss” like secrets.
Like a hick I tilt my
head to see the top and
ponder tossed pennies.
In the skyscraper
canyons, light outlines moving
shapes sipping Starbucks.
Like a jeweler
displaying gems on velvet
wealth gleams beyond reach
“We’re domestic,” a
blonde woman tells her daughter
in line at the gate.
Flushing Meadows Park
once a site of hope. There, a
globe pledged future peace.
“Read my poem? Please?”
In real life I’d get blank stares.
Here, you’re back for more.
Just over five months
This one four hundred fifty
Art or wasted time?
A haiku a day?
Not quite. Some days the tap runs,
some days it’s bone dry.
Mud has a smell that’s
like waking up to coffee.
You know you’re alive.
The equinox means
equal night and day worldwide
yin and yang of light.