Wednesday, September 2, 2015


where is that young
hot haiku poet whose body's
not a rumpled grocery bag?

probably on the non-business side
of that librarian like a moon

A Blog that Died Young

I just found the blog five / seven / five.

It's unfortunate this anonymous haiku blog died so young.

There are a few links to other very interesting and playful sites there too. There's this one to Jessica Hagy's visually polymorphously-perverse and playful site, Indexed.

And there's this interesting writing prompt site. (I love the "just do it" guerilla tactics there.)

I was having fun going through and reading those sites and also five / seven / five just now.

Here are some of my favorite haiku from this anonymously authored blog which ceased adding new poems in 2011.


the stretch of a cat's
leg, extended far enough
into space, asleep.

AT 11:31 AM


le laid

c'est une grande histoire,
mais je n'ai pas la visage
pour les charmants contes.

AT 10:00 AM


i put cinnamon
in my pasta sauce today.
surprisingly good.

AT 5:35 PM


today i found out
that we have a "sister site"
same name, but dot com.

AT 12:28 AM


now it's in your head too

never gonna give
you up, never gonna make
you cry or hurt you.

AT 10:25 AM

apes had it all wrong

i now open my
bananas with a pocket
knife. no more string stuff.

AT 10:24 AM

cage fighting is good for the brain

i asked him to give
me seventeen syllables
he looked and said "huh?"

AT 10:19 AM


i saw a picture
today of someone whose head
had been cut straight off.

AT 10:18 AM



the kids on the wall
shoegazing, fiddling with
what's important:

AT 2:38 PM


these are the things we
place above our heads until
the sun shines again.

AT 2:36 PM


listening to rain
drops fall down further from where
they began, upwards.

AT 11:39 PM



Except for the eight-legged horse

the ancient Norse Gods
never died. They knock on doors
mid-week, hammer in

rainstorms, burst into
crowsong at shiny things or
when a person dies.

AT 1:01 PM

The Tormentors

When certain people die,
we should just dig out
old Halloween masks
from our childhood,
our creepy childhoods,
and wear them to the funeral:
masks it was hard to breathe through,
that nearly suffocated us.
We will strap these on for the show,
and sit there in Chinese paint
glowing witch face-green, hellfire orange.
And all of reality will be held in place
by a single rubber band.
We can mourn this thing
which took our childhood,
this demon, this thief.
And people will understand
if we cannot speak through such
a small suffocating hole,
through our throwback horror
and plastic grief.

My Cat's Ass

My cat doesn't like
the idea of this poem,
of any poem.
My cat sprawls across
notebook, pen and hand
like Genghis Khan across Asia.
If it were my laptop,
he'd have the same
fat furry intervention
strategy at the ready.
My cat's fat ass
is anti-poem.
"The world has enough
fat ass poems,"
his ass tells me.
"Study mine instead.
It has carefully
minted lines too.
Better lines than yours.
Besides, how many poems
have tails like this?"
And here he demonstrated
its variable meters.

Eros G.P.S.

The drive is mapped but not its driver.
It takes us these insane places we want to go
sometimes, and we feel like thanking it
for its delicious failure to ask us,
"And what the hell are you doing going there?"
Let it pretend to have a human voice,
even a sensuous one, but we both know
at bottom it isn't us.

Young Man Fresh from a Divorce

It's like trying
to give directions
to an escaped helium balloon.


A diary
is a book of rats
kept by a child.