haikus 104-108

haiku 104
i admired his skill
the glass blower at the fair
he made fancy things

haiku 105
listening to art
alone on a bench in the
modern museum

haiku 106
a tangerine sits
in the middle of the desk
lonely and orange

haiku 107
she slips off her clothes
every night before she
slides into her bed

haiku 108
the uniformed man
led him away in handcuffs
towel on his head

haikus 99-103

haiku 99
how can i haiku?
with so little time and space,
poetry suffers.

haiku 100
she shits there lonely
watching the tide wash away
and counts the sea shells

haiku 101
eyelids are drooping
its time for my midday nap
i sleep with lights on

haiku 102
peanut butter cup
my favorite candy for
a haloween night

haiku 103
haikus come easy
sitting in a darkened room
alone on the floor

haikus 96-98

the girl that i love
sits cross-legged in the sand
doodling with fingers

she spells out her name
it is lovely and fluid
water washes in

her toes are submerged
along with her signature
she is beautiful

poem for a rainy day

when it's too hot outside, and too sunny
(and it can be too sunny, so sunny it hurts your eyes,
even to look down at the ground),
when it's too hot, and it can hardly ever be too hot
when the clouds cover up the sun or if it's raining,
it's those days that i like to stay indoors,
and lay there on the tile floor, face up,
sometimes with my shirt pulled up to about where my third rib is,
just to have some more flesh exposed,
to feel the coolness of that dirty floor.
but on rainy days i'd rather go outside,
and feel the weather, not just look at it through the windows.
i'd rather know how fat those drops are, and feel
them through my hair, and i'd like to kick
at puddles, watch them break apart and scatter, then run back
to where i stand, watch the watertry to take back the space
my shoes have stolen. i want to have cold water running
off the ends of my fingertips, and clinging to my nose before
it drops off. i want to know that nature appreciates
my presence and actively aims to soak me as it soaks
everything else. i don't want to be shown any mercy.
those are the days i like to go outside.
i want to feel whole in the rain.

home

he walked alone, down city blocks,
past empty stoops, in the rain.
his hair was wet, and cold,
as was the rest of him, and he walked.
he looked down, not ahead,
looking at the puddles before he stepped in them,
and fought against the urge to lay down
in one and give in to the cold wetness.
but still he trudged ahead, with wet feet,
and a shirt soaked clear through
looking for that apartment with the
familiar white light lit up out front.
he knew she'd be there waiting,
probably looking out through the glass
that made up the front window.
he'd see her face, her smile and little laugh,
then the way she'd come to the door,
and insist he come in and immediately change,
because "oh my god, you're soaked."
home.
he walked alone.

untitled

few things are nicer
than seeing her smile
that next morning
when she rolls over
and realizes where
she's at, and why,
and the way she
says "hi" while that
smile is still on
her face. they should
make memories big
enough to keep those
things forever.

laverie

this laundromat provides good inspiration.
one can look out onto french streets
through the big glass window.
of course the words get in the way of some details.
they are yellow and blue (the words)
and appear backwards on the window
as i look out from the inside.
i was alone for a while in here,
to sit and listen as the washers hum and chug;
with water and clothes and soap, the three elements
intermingling to make the sounds.
i had company for a minute, but now she's left.
but when she was here she was a black woman
with braids, jeans, and a black t-shirt.
we looked at one another once or twice, but never spoke.
she got here while my clothes were on "lavage"
and left just before "rincage", but really
it was only for a matter of minutes.
the dryers stare at me; big hollow eyes
at about tummy level standing up.
they are all closed, but none of them are on,
just idle, and staring.
every once in a while i'll see someone i know walk by,
just then he didn't look in, but some do.
still alone, i sit and look out past blue
and yellow letters at rue magnanen.

haikus 7-11

my haiku for you
needs little introduction
but's a masterpiece

a follow up yes
but surely no less brilliant
seconds taste good too

now a muse on dogs
why must they shit in the street?
to step around sucks

i find numbers bland
they take time to remember
and look boring too

and now, conclusion;
oil makes puddles look funny;
gross when i drink them.

haiku #95

the dog- hes barking
can he not shut the fuck up?
i will go beat him

haiku #94

i spin a yo-yo
below my middle finger
it doesnt return

haiku #93

picture driving home
quite under the influence
blue lights flash behind

haiku #92

haikus are supposed
to deal with nature and such
mine will deal with me

haiku #91

i take my sweet time
writing haikus afternoons
because i am bored

haiku #90

if i go swimming
and disappear in the depths
come rescue me please

haiku #89

butter is better
on toast than anywhere else
this i must proclaim

starfish

I found a message in a bottle
washed up on the shore today
along with an old, dried up starfish.
The message said something about
shuffleboard on a cruise ship.
The starfish said nothing.

counting pennies

I’m sitting on the bed
Counting pennies
And thinking of you.
I’ve got nothing but time,
And ninety-five cents-
A nickel short of whole.

death of a chair

I. The Captain’s Chair

The chair had been in the apartment for months. They called it “The captain’s Chair.” It had once belonged to a former roommate, one they called “Captain Kid,” but since his departure the chair seemed to belong to no one. The chair looked to be in decent condition; it was a recliner in working order other than the fact that it didn’t know when to stop reclining. Maybe that’s what did it in, the constant agitation caused by the chair continuously flinging them over backwards. Regardless of the circumstances surrounding it, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon the chair met its demise.
It came in the form of two men in their early twenties. Chris and Matt they called themselves. It started innocently; Chris simply nudged the chair and watched it tumble backwards. Then, even before this narrator could get a grasp on things (danger: cliché approaching), the shit hit the fan. Chris savagely pounced upon the chair, ripping at its arms and reclining footrest. Matt watched at first. Then, caught up in the moment, he joined in himself. He flipped the chair over, its bottom side exposed, and sent a series of dropkicks into its back. The room was caught in a massive storm of fury. Stuffing flew, wood and metal were flung across the room, and shouts of “Fuck you chair!” were heard many houses away.
No on will ever know what caused it, this senseless act of violence. Whether the chair looked at Chris the wrong way, or whether it was just the time in a man’s life when he needed to destroy something, only Chris and the chair will ever know for sure.
What’s left of the chair still sits out behind their house. A legless, backless, armless mass of wood and metal and cushion remains in the spot it landed as it was flung from their deck in a celebration of victory. The chair is glad it wouldn’t burn.

II. Tossed

The chair was in a very fragile emotional state. It had been tossed out the back door, off of the porch, only to be left in pieces on the lawn. But the chair couldn’t have been simply tossed out; first it had to be ripped to shreds. The people, in a rage, had stripped the chair of its back, its reclining footrest, as well as its respect and dignity. Now the chair rested on the grass, crying and bleeding stuffing into the yard.
The dew came at night, and the temperature dropped. The chair shuddered, lost more stuffing, and tried to fall asleep. The chair had trouble dozing, kept waking up after nightmarish flashbacks to the beating. Images of drop-kicking feet and ripping hands swirled about the chair in its dreams. Finally morning came to relieve the chair of its unrest.
Dogs came by that day. The dogs stared at the chair, circled around it sniffing, and barked confused messages to one another. One of the dogs started gnawing on what was left of its arm another lifted its leg near the rear section. The chair braced itself for the worst, but was saved by the dogs’ owner. The dogs trotted off, knowing that they’d get their chance at the chair.
That night the people came back out, smelling strongly of beer (a smell the chair had learned to recognize as trouble), and chanting an ominous tune. They came toward the chair and lifted it off the ground. Back up the porch they went, raised the chair above their heads, and once again heaved it down upon the lawn. There was a cracking sound this time, and what was left of the chair rested on its side, now crippled. The people cheered, before returning to the house and beer.
The sun came up again, and the chair did not resist. It was still on its side, comatose, when the men came to carry it off. They spoke Spanish, and the chair did not understand their words as they lifted it into the truck. The chair joined forgotten objects from all around, and felt better about its end. They were all going to a better place.

washed up

there’s an old boot lying in the sand
half buried, toe up, and wet clear through.
brown leather wrinkled, sole separating,
the water ebbs and oozes as it will.
the laces are still there, marching halfway up,
then retreating into wet sand, ends frayed.
the tongue wags in the breeze,
missing ankles and other stabilizing forces.
the tide rises, comes to claim the boot,
and I watch the sand pour in.
somewhere in this ocean the other boot stays tied.