Monthly Archives: January 2012

New Haiku

Left without a stain

the past drank itself away

empty spirits glass.


Drunk men fall softer

from their galloping horse

than the sober man.


The ocean takes sips

of sand from the rock face and

slowly drinks the cliff.


Writers always write

like a painter has to paint

and you always use.


Lost between the sheets

a grammar never spoken

in lovers’ silence.


Any empty room

has so much more potential

than my furniture.


What’s left at day’s end

a drink, a smoke, and a sigh

an ashtray of words.


Drool on my pillow

the placenta of a dream

wets the afterlife.


Hands of man made time

we chose to spin this clockwise

heads chasing our tails.


Tao is not the Tao

now is not now now or now

now never was now.


Explaining Ice to a Summer Insect

“And that mean little boy threw a cube of ice at me,” the butterfly told the may bug.

“What’s ice?” the may bug asked.

“What do you mean? Frozen water,” the butterfly replied, forgetting she was talking to a may bug.

“It freezes?” the may bug could not imagine.

“Of course,” said the butterfly thinking the guy she was talking to was a bit slow. “That’s why we fly south every fall.”

“I’m not planning any trip in the fall.”

That’s when the clueless butterfly finally clued in she was talking to an insect who wouldn’t survive the summer. “Oh, right, you’re a may bug.” The butterfly felt both proud for being a butterfly and pity for the may bug who didn’t know that every generation of may bugs before him died out by June. It was too much for one little butterfly to have to say, so, the butterfly kept quiet, not wanting to set off a mass panic among the may bugs. The yellow butterfly went back to drinking from the purple flower.

The may bug sensed he had turned off the butterfly, so he continued to mingle with other butterflies. This may bug had a thing for butterflies. He flew over to another violet where he found a monarch, drinking alone. The may bug thought he might as well take his chances and flirt with this beautiful butterfly, though, monarch butterflies have a reputation of being stuck up. “I love this flower, nice choice. I come here all the time to hang out, hover over it.”

“Go away.” The monarch’s snotty tone lived up to their reputation.

“Hey, I’m just being friendly.”

“You’re just being annoying. Bug off, may bug, you’re bugging me.”

“Hey, be nice. I’ll leave, but you don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”

“That’s nice language for someone who’s not even going to make it through the month.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You mean you don’t know? No one has ever told you?”

“Told me what?” The may bug was scared to hear what was coming next.

“Well then, let me be the first to tell you that you are called a may bug because you only live for the month of May. Why do you think you’re called a may bug?”

“I’m not a may bug, I’m a cockchafer.”

“That is so much worse. Cockchafer? That’s the best name you came up with? What, do you work in porn films?”

“You wanna find out why we’re called cockchafer? I’ll show you,” the may bug smiled mischieviously.

“Well, to me, you’re a disgusting may bug. Call yourself whatever you want, but you’re a may bug.”

“I have may bugs that are distant relatives, but, I’m from a different species from them.”

“You’re the same! You’re just in denial. Do you know any may bug or cockchafer as you call them, do you know any of your kind that can explain what winter or ice is?”

“I was just asking that question! That’s the second time today that I’ve heard that word. What is ice?”

“See? You don’t know. And you’ll never know.”

“Can you at least describe it a bit? Ice?”

“It’s really really cold and it’s frozen water and it melts if you put it in a warm place.”

“I can’t imagine that. Frozen water. What’s it look like?”

“You’ve never seen ice cubes in someone’s drink?”


“Well, there you go. You should fly from here and find a picnic and check out if they’ve got any ice in their glass. Or, fly into town and check into a restaurant and see what they’ve got on the menu.”

But, after hearing the last butterfly’s horror story about surviving an ice cube attack, the may bug thought ice sounded dangerous and smart to avoid. The little may bug flew off to find another pretty butterfly to distract him from thoughts of ice and the coming of June.

Isn’t This A Rhetorical Question?

The only problem with writing so much so fast so soon is

that it all gets mixed in the mind like an explosion at a paint factory

and all the colors go up in smoke

and you’re writing

what you thought two weeks ago

and thinking about what you wrote two weeks ago

meaning you get lost in the midst of a sentence you don’t even remember starting.

Chronological gets illogical

and up is down and

the south beat the north.

Left to our own devices we break them.

Few have navigated themselves out of themselves.

Isn’t that the ultimate aim of all those who set down the path of self awareness

knowing themselves inside and out?

Wouldn’t that breed redundancy?

Isn’t this a rhetorical question?

What Time Is Doing To Itself

I have midnight thoughts that wilt in the noonday sun.

What is it about the dark that inspires the moon to bloom

then turn in on itself

like glacial origami

melting in on itself

a pool of blue at the end of the white

which the sun takes away

with such stealth

that it shines on its own crime

and still we can’t see what time

is doing to itself.

The Second To Last Prophet

Shias and Sunnis and splitting the prophet in half

religion sliced by the sword

a Koran bookmarked by words that are not there

words millions haven’t read but are willing to die for.

Mohammad died alone and left no will.

Like Buddha said, ‘don’t make this a religion of idols’

who are you to declare the heir

and why should you care?

The word of Allah is not about one man

but one God.

If Ali was the rightful successor

or the caliphs

means nothing to the meaning of Mohammad, who means nothing in the meaning of


There’s A Drug For That

She couldn’t stop thinking about him. She had taken everything she had in her medicine cabinet, everything from Denial, to Nullify, to Milk of Amnesia, she had even Brain-Washed, but, still his face lingered.

“I don’t know what it was about him, I can’t stop thinking about him,” she told her friend over an afternoon enema. “He was really special.”

“He was Terminal,” her friend emphasized, “of course he was special, you’ve never been with a Terminal before, so you’re curious.”

“Have you ever been with a Terminal?”

“Once, I didn’t really like it, though.”

“Really? What was the matter with him?”

“Nothing really the matter, just, it was different, that’s all. I don’t know how to say it. Sorry, I’ve been all out of Creativity all week, I keep forgetting to pick some up at the store. I don’t suppose you have any on you, do you?”

Creativity was the one mainline medicine that Helen never took, for she, oddly enough, found she didn’t need it. This was a secret she had told no one, swallowing tic tacs as though they were Creativity in front of friends, and family. “No, sorry, funny, I’m all out too.”

“You too? That’s Ok, I really don’t miss it, you know? I know that sounds strange to say, but I really don’t miss Creativity. I am a devout drug addict, but, Creativity doesn’t really get me going which is why I’m usually so slow to pick some up any time I run out. But, of course, don’t think I go too long without it, because they say we need some every once and awhile to stay healthy, but, I don’t take it all that much, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, you’re like me,” her friend, Susan, laughed. “Aren’t we awful? If people were watching our conversation right now, they would probably think we were totally insane!” Her friend laughed alone. Susan had taken Sensitivity this morning in a double dosage, so she sensed her friend’s silence strongly. “What’s wrong? I was only joking, we’re not really insane, I was just joking.”

“No, I know I’m not insane, but, still, I can’t help thinking about him all the time.”

“Take some Denial, you’ll feel better.”

“I tried that, it didn’t work.”

“How bout Calvin Klein’s Good Riddance for women?”

“No, I didn’t try that, do you have some?”

“Me? No, thank goodness, I don’t need it. But it sounds like you do, so why don’t you go to the drug store and pick some up?”

“I guess I should, I really don’t feel like feeling like this.”

“No, I understand, completely. I one time got hooked on some guy, you remember Jerry?”

“Sure, you two were together forever.”

“I think it was more than a month, I can’t really remember, because I sprayed on so much Good Riddance I was practically drowning in the stuff and so I don’t remember much about Jerry, thank goodness.”

“It really works?”

“What did you use for Marv?”

“I got through that with a plain old Memory Killer.”

“That’s it? Memory Killer’s all you took?”

“It wasn’t hard, except when I’d look at the bite marks on my arms and legs, then I’d miss him and take more Memory Killer, but it eventually worked, because the bruises healed and I didn’t miss him any more.”

“Time really is the best drug for that, but who’s got time for it to kick in? So, zap yourself to a drug store and pick up some Good Riddance and you’ll be good as new.”

“I think I will.”

“Good girl.”

“Ok, we’re all finished up here,” said the technician, removing the hose from out of Helen’s rectum.

“Great, thank you. Susan, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go ahead, get to the doctor and pick some up right away, I can’t think or do anything else until I do, I’m sorry to just run off on you.” Helen said, dressing.

“That’s alright, call me later, tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Hopefully I won’t remember feeling anything.”

“That’s a good girl.”

“Call you later.” And Helen left her friend to finish up her enema.

And How Much Could You Say In Just 17 Syllables, You Bastard?

Dead ends bring new starts

turning back to a new view

of this deja vu.


Past reels tossed away

shooting new pictures is still

a split second old.


They’ve seen the fires

still they smoke their lives away

watching bodies burn.


Yawns into the phone

could be muffled, but are not.

Breath says more than words.


The clown says, “Screw it!”

and walks home in his makeup

and big floppy shoes.


This haiku got lost

on its way to becoming

my greatest sonnet.


I would kill for one.

Really. I love Klondike Bars

enough to murder.


Spinning into sin

the feeble conscience gives in

to its own spiral.


White touch of God’s brush

cotton on the horizon

the cloud sails away.


The Graffiti of God

This appetite of an ever expanding universe is insatiable

feeding from a frenzy of blood rioting just below the skin

starving just to let the rest of existence in

we’re the aftermath of stars

our own bodies desiring to meet other bodies then implode

fuck scars

while willpower and conscience are tossed in the same ring

told to duke it out

as this skin stays hungry

constantly evolving, drying, dying

wet through sweat

wrapping souls like Christmas presents to be unwrapped by God Himself.

Finding faith in all that exists before exiting this existence is the essence of life itself.

Chart the cosmos through chaos

signposts set by constellations.


See a trillion lights as one to read the graffiti of God.

The Science of Religion

The science of religion demands

we enter it blind

and come out the other side

with the truth of the universal equation.

It’s as simple as one plus one equals two

the only mystery is

what makes up that other one.

God is the easy answer

still so many fight this solution and turn to chemistry for their evolution.

God is bigger

than a petri dish and

God is smaller.

A lot smaller.

Turn the microscope around and stare at yourself and you’ll see the answer.

Those who calculate themselves only are blinded by their own sight.

Those who calculate the distance to the divine see the divine, enlightened to the whispers

of the light.

When Robots Learn to Paint

When robots learn to paint

all us artists will be out of work

cause we’ll just get the robots to do it cause after manufacturing them, robots will be

programmed to paint for free

proving the soul is overrated

at least from a marketing point of view.

Oh, my robot could paint that!

That’s a beautiful abstract. Is that a Jackson Pollack? It’s a robot? Excellent. Inspired.

Teach robots to paint and weep.

Make them poets with a paint brush

and it’s the end of the world cause then we’d really have lost our souls

when we can’t sense the alms of another who offers it to us in a frame.