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She keeps it displayed
to remind herself that once
she didn’t know it

…create. Impatient
that I won’t pay attention
when I’m writing stuff.

“Let’s go to the beach!”
One kid, online, shrugs as the
other keeps texting.

“In a typical week, only 6 percent of children ages nine to thirteen play outside on their own.”
from The Option of Urbanism: Investing in a New American Dream by Christopher B. Leinberger

And so summer goes
like fishing line cast into
swift moving waters

Panera’s didn’t
call, nor Applebee’s. Rejec-
tion’s hard at sixteen.

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.

She can’t stand her. He’s
her ex, so don’t include them.
Can’t we go alone?

Deciding who to
take like negotiating
Mideast peace treaty.

The play was about
them. His unrequited love
her indifference.

He sent sensitive
documents to a stranger
thinking it was me.

When’s the right time to
wash winter blankets? Last night
I saw snowflakes fall.

Earthworms emerge, splayed
across sidewalks, tender skin
snags on rough concrete.

All around it, the
town is dead. Pity the poor
taken investors.

No one waters them.
Tiny cells plead, but TV
seems more important.

In wordless despair
M dissolves in tears clutching
me like a life vest.

An adult blankie.
To take one from its owner
will make grown men cry.

Shopped a membership
warehouse store today. Got six
years’ worth of ketchup.

haiku from Trisha who was there

Gay flight attendant
Shares gender stereotype
Astounds passengers

Vegans, stay away,
lest your firm resolve melt from
tender smoked brisket.

Hunched and hobbling I
move as if years older, a
taste of what’s to come.

We all complain there’s
no place to plug in. One by
one, our laptops die.

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.”

While I throw pennies
into a coin jar, Bear Stearns
gets a big bailout.

When a righteous man
is caught with his pants down, it’s
likely he’ll get spanked.

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.

Hats, gloves, put away
in optimism return
for winter’s last gasp.

Left in Manhattan
cab. Friends’ numbers, pix of my
kids in strangers’ hands.

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.

On a cluttered Queens
balcony he stands, watching
the complex decay.

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.