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All around it, the
town is dead. Pity the poor
taken investors.
An adult blankie.
To take one from its owner
will make grown men cry.
Haiku, like bonsai,
needs care and pruning. A mind
unfocused kills both.
Incrementally
I clean unearthing a clear
space on the table.
on another blog
gross comment deposited
like defecation
Now that the snow is
gone, her neglected garden
pokes up stalks of loss.
Wan, pale, red-eyed, she’s
the poster wife of Wynette’s
song, “Stand By Your Man.”
Alan Dershowitz
said about prostitution
the lie men believe.
posted to my Twitter account
I need sleep, but I * need to work but I need sleep * to work can’t think straight.
posted to my Twitter account
Project due and I * like the late adopter I * am, haven’t finished.
Heating system dust -
particles of previous
occupants’ lives, selves.
From an estate sale -
pendulum clock. Westminster
chimes now count my days.
In the skyscraper
canyons, light outlines moving
shapes sipping Starbucks.
I am the dull one, struck
mute by accomplishment
what I do, nothing.
Flushing Meadows Park
once a site of hope. There, a
globe pledged future peace.
On a cluttered Queens
balcony he stands, watching
the complex decay.
Just over five months
This one four hundred fifty
Art or wasted time?
Headgear gone wild I
tip my hat to idiots
who have flipped their lids.
Some people like to
cook. Then there’s me who dreads that
thing called dinner hour.
She PhotoShops her
self covered with blood spatters
loves puppies, is sweet.
Like trying to use
your tongue as a lint brush, you
wake up fuzzy-mouthed.
separating the
non-essential from the much
needed is painful.
My spare bedroom holds
many possibilities
under all that junk.
Viriconium,
Gormenghast, Majipoor. Dark
journeys. Twisted dreams.
Inertia roosting
inside me like a hen un-
willing to lay eggs.
Going to New York
to be on TV. Need new
clothes. A tent would work.
I keep coming to
post like a lover checking
for text messages.
Silence erases
thoughts and stress like dry markers
wiped clean from white boards.
I really should start
dinner. But husband’s gone, so
I’ll just blog and starve.
A blowtorch melting
a block of ice from within,
pain made transparent.
The more I compute,
the lazier I get, and the
saggier the couch.
He made Johnny Depp
a household name, and keeps Hot
Topic in business.
Too many carbs. Need
tea, coffee, power drink. No
rest for the weary.
I start out strong with
good intentions. Sit at the
computer. Day’s shot.
First snowfall blankets
unraked beds of leaves. Nature’s
default is beauty.
An email from a
stranger descending into
madness unnerved me.
Secrets like splinters
lodged down deep tear you apart
from the inside out.
I jot on random
scraps, then lose them. No wonder
I don’t get things done.
Reading haikus is
like eating chestnuts. You stop
after a bad one.
I love the too big
coffee table that takes up
most of this small room.
I scratch itchy skin,
thinking of lepers losing
pieces of themselves.
Idea of early
to bed rare as a rainbow
and just as fleeting.
Socks multiply when
mated yet produce offspring
that never quite match.
You’ll never again
feel pain, joy both at once. Be
so at odds with life.
When you unburden,
you hope listeners will care.
Yet some could care less.
Write about ‘em and
stats go up. I try not to
let this affect me.
When we run out of
batteries, we sacrifice
the TV remote.
I’m soooooo jealous of
the brilliance of this blog name:
Blather. Wince. Repeat.