She's making monster

She's making monster
Noises, growling and roaring
Between giggling fits.

She's waiting silent

She's waiting silent,
Resting in warmth and darkness,
Testing her world's walls.

Left, Right, Forward, Back

Left, right, forward, back,
I crawl across the desktop
My world has gone flat.

Killing time, hiding

Killing time, hiding
Inside my head waiting, still,
For flowers to bloom.

She whoops like a crane

She whoops like a crane
But she isn't extinct yet.
At least we hope not.

Conversing backwards

Conversing backwards
With myself, in haiku rythm
Am I quite mad yet?

Incedentally--

Incidentally--
The trash reference is for me,
Not my friend Peter.

Girthy it may be.

Girthy it may be.
Self-referencing po-mo trash.
But I'm being harsh.

A flexible view

A flexible view
Of dipthongs and parts of speech
Can help the haikuist.

This has got to stop.

This has got to stop.
Dandelion has three or four
Syllables. Not both.

Now I'm wondering:

Now I'm wondering:
Do Dandelions dopple
As they bloom past me?

Dandelions still bloom

Dandelions still bloom
Past my stationary feet.
I munch dropped pecans.

I don't really think

I don't really think
"Doppling" is even a word.
What do dopplers do?

Outside, the passing

Outside, the passing
Cars beg me to recognize
Their doppling voices.

So long is the reach

So long is the reach
Of my missionary friends
Digitized hoodlums.

Immortality

Immortality
Of verse mocked: ones and zeroes,
Temporal, vanish.

Guest Post

poet constipate
liberate girthy cargo
writer's block, my ass

-Pete

The finality

The finality:
The intent faces, searching
For knowledge long lost.

What they were doing

What they were doing
Waiting there, trying to pretend
That we wouldn't know?

Lanky shadows cast

Lanky shadows cast
by headlights through the window
Spread arms, turn, and fade.

Coming home again

Coming home again
To places and faces missed.
A few days yet, love.

Guest Post

Two yellowjackets,
Dying on a windowsill,
Clean their wings for death.

-Michelle

A sea of faces

A sea of faces,
A poet's petals float by
Until eye meets eye.

Cat eyes watch and wait

Cat eyes watch and wait
From under the couch, trying
To remake the wilds.

Home Lights

Click the title

The squid lies there still

The squid lies there still,
Rings of fried, crispy brown,
Confused, silly squid.

So much rain this year

So much rain this year
The dark clouds cool the summer.
A greater storm builds.

I weep

I weep for the lives lost
And for the stories that will not be told.
I lash out and wear ashes on my head
For the part that I have played:
My complicity in profit
My being a part of a thing bigger than myself
That swells on the misery wrought around the world in sweatshops and battlegrounds, in villages without clean water, among the children who starve while I throw away food.

I don't know how to solve this problem.

I am too small.

I am too small.

I would bite the blood-sucker's neck if I could reach it.
I would strike my own support lines, but the innocent are there too.
I would ride my horse into the fray and die for justice,
But I have no horse, and the time for war has passed.
The dead already litter the field.

For you, dear traveller, what may I do?
What everyday act of unspeakable beauty meets your needs today?
Ask. I dare not refuse.

The full moon peeked down

The full moon peeked down
Between the folds of it's veil
Blowing in the breeze.

Many times she's asked

Many times she's asked,
"Are you haikuing?" Not then,
But now, yes, I am.

Tomato sprouts, all

Tomato sprouts, all
Six rows of five reaching up.
Waiting for last frost.

Shatterd glass litters

Shattered glass litters
The floor, spreading away from
The puddle of dark ale.

The haiku magnets speak

I only composed the first two of these.

listen beneath the
morning mushroom blossom to
too black a blooming

people investigate
a frienly commercial face
the dandelion dream

cold snow falls about
every autumn tree after
leafs drop and wander
chance

light yellow summer
sun said whisper child while I
cry the song of life

shiver small petal
above concrete cuddle where
I wish night burnd through
P-TOWN

eat or live & laugh
but be happy with our wine
shell out for dinner

journey through thought always
see you smile soon breathe happy
give before most ask

Horn, horse head, crab

Fury of the deep,
Bright eyes hide a lust for flesh.
Mermacrabicorn.

Foul math of Moloch

Foul math of Moloch
Eats our children. Testing them
In consuming fire.

Cold fingers shifting

Cold fingers shifting
Stiff gears. Cold cheeks facing
Stiff wind. Almost home.

Cold wind whips about

Cold wind whips about
Wandering southward, to warm
And rest its cold soul.

I cannot lie there

"I cannot lie there,"
Brandy said. "That bed has been
Desi-defiled."

Sparks linger and fade

Sparks linger and fade,
Float toward more constant lights,
Trying to touch them.

Such subtile magick

Such subtle magick
Hides in the details, each speck
Its own universe.

Solitary bird

Solitary bird
On a pilgrim holiday.
Where are his fellows?

Lift the glass to toast

Lift the glass to toast
All the beauty, such great gifts,
And turn thanks with me.

Today is Friday

Today is Friday
Disguised, playing masquerade,
Wearing Tuesday's face.

She came together

She came together
Nicely, I'd say. She looks like
She'll go forever.

I've seen the greatest

I've seen the greatest
Minds of my generation
Ask: "Want fries with that?"

Credit and Respect to Alen Ginsberg

A good thing you were

A good thing you were
Born twent-seven years past,
Now so bright and sweet.

Guitarists fingers

Guitarists fingers
Caressing, dancing, loving:
Immodest display.

The flower blossoms

The flower blossoms
In the corner of the room,
Bright eyes in the dark.

The fig tree is dead.

The fig tree is dead.
It's not Jesus' fault this time.
I should water more.

The air draws harder

The air draws harder
Than it did a week ago.
Week's worth of wind gone.

Southward bound, sun sets

Southward bound, sun sets
To port, warm imprint on cheek
And arm spreading out.

Vine climbs, pulls its way

Vine climbs, pulls its way
Up, along, reaching out its
bright hands, pink, blue, green.

Bitterness in brew

Bitterness in brew:
Served hot to scald, black to stain.
Best part of waking...

Some wizened woman

Some wizened woman
Stirring her pot, telling tales
Too old for young minds.

So long a time it

So long a time it
Takes to arrive...To knock down
The door...To come home.

Great witnessing cloud

Great witnessing cloud
Of saints, long gone and recent
Watching, hope for peace.

Sock Monkeys, the bane

Sock Monkeys, the bane
Of my childhood. They haunted
My house, hounding me.

All Hallow's Eve

Halloween is our chance to celebrate the darker side of life. What other chance do we have to recognize and confront our fascination with the Macabre, the Violent, the Evil in ourselves without consequence?

Holidays have traditionally been times of reversal: Masters serve the servants, the Fool is King, and God is born in a barn to a poor couple out of wedlock. The celebration of death in a culture that normally refuses to acknowledge its mortality makes all the sense in the world.

At least it did to me until this past weekend. Then I thought of how thoroughly we already express our Macabre, Violent, and Evil selves. Our leaders are vampires who profit from foreign policies certain to kill women and children. We make zombies of the poor with our pop media and our drugs and our justice system better designed to make criminals than citizens. We have all become cyborgs, our rampant consumerism only a few steps away from making us into as much what we own as who we are, our communication moderated by infernal machines rather than the intervening space between human mouth and human ear.

We are our worst fears already. We don't need catharsis; we need change. We don't need costumes of our darker sides; we need a reminder of what our best side could be. There's a real holiday reversal. Better than the consumerism of Christmas and the religious hypocrisy of Easter. Why don't we tell the truth for a change about who we really are, and act the way we know we should?

Why don't we really reverse things. Let's make the little girl in Iraq more important than the CEO of Halliburton. Let's make a decision based on the needs of a poor family in Haiti and not for the board of Exxon. Let's do right by the poor, the disenfranchised, the sick, the weak, and the young instead of perpetuating the power of the already to powerful. There's a holiday reversal.

Let's remember the dead, but not the dead as we imagine them in our nightmares. Instead let's remember their most saintly qualities, their best hopes for their children, their steps toward the the betterment of humankind. Let's remember Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Cesar Chavez, and Mother Theresa. Let's remember the best of what's come before. And let's be rightly ashamed of ourselves.

Shopkeepers crying

Shopkeepers crying
Their wares making promises:
Joy in a bottle.

Crazy fish swimming

Crazy fish swimming
Down the street, pulling fish-carts
To and from the square.

Marshmallow towers

Marshmallow towers
This year faired no better than
They yet have before.

A stack of hardbacks

A stack of hardbacks,
Warm bed, sweet love, full wine rack,
Vacation waiting.

Paper piles knee high

Paper piles knee high.
Saving the world, life by life,
A memory lost

The dripping of eaves.

The dripping of eaves.
The distant garage baseline.
Rain in the city.

I'm pretty pleased with

I'm pretty pleased with
It. It seems so clean, It's just,
Such dualistic War.

Oh, bastarnd, don't put

Oh, bastard, don't put
That thought, Write something so much
More clever and bright.

I turned on the heat

I turned on the heat
In the car this morning it
Was oddly pleasant.

Cool nights left wishing

Cool nights left wishing
For more company, more warmth,
But she is at work.

Holding together

Holding together
Books and papers. Dropping them
To hold a child's hand.

The coffee's blackness

The coffee's blackness
Swallowing spiteful remnants
Drowning hangover.

Friday, this, thirteenth

Friday, this, thirteenth
Of October, four and ten
In the afternoon.

Things yet to be done

Things yet to be done
Hold me here, but the cool air
And sunlight call me.

Sinister glances

Sinister glances
Barely dodged. Sudden knocking.
Fright-jump. Moment gone.

Dashed lines, rhythmic lumps

Dashed lines, rhythmic lumps,
Delicate division for
Deadly metal streams.

The rock that tripped me

The rock that tripped me
Saved my life. Unwitting dodge
Of an evil glare.

Aaron's Blog

I just discovered Aaron's blog. I'm sure he told me about it, but I'd been remiss and not found it until now.

http://austinartist.blogspot.com/

Also, I've included it as a link in the right column.

Tied in a knot, not

Tied in a knot, not
Free to fend for itself, it
Loses direction.

Such a good kid, too

Such a good kid, too,
He was and can still become.
Go away red flag.

All the voices cry

All the voices cry-
ing for my short attention
Falling silent. Hush.

Long to sit and read

Long to sit and read
On the porch with a cold beer,
Listen to rainfall.

Tiny drops of life

Tiny drops of life
Having waited for so long
Bringing all their friends.

Off to buy something

Off to buy something
From someone I fear might not
Be a real person.

From pot to pot walk

From pot to pot walk,
Water slowly trickling down
On sage and ginger.

Jesus sits before

Jesus sits before
Me, taking a math benchmark.
Where did we go wrong?

The walk up Sixth Street

The walk up Sixth Street,
Footing it past the traffic,
Looking for pecans.

Sweetness of the squash

Sweetness of the squash
The spice, nutty grains, tart fruit
Cold beer, feast of fall.

Bright blue becomes

Bright blue becomes
Pale moody gray as the sky
Fades into Austin.

Running along the

Running along the
Barrier between chain-link
and free-way. Escape.

Today's tests stacked in

Today's tests, stacked in
Three towers, looming, promise
To watch the day drag.

Parade of cotton

Parade of cotton
Beasts and ships and bright faces
Pass my window, fade.

Drops falling splatter

Drops falling splatter
From pool to pool beneath up-
turned cup, table, floor.

What blooms lie beyond

What blooms lie beyond
The edge of my becoming
Though the morning fog?

Prospect of sunlight

Prospect of sunlight
Waking and warming this cold
Skin. Five o'clock come.

The man in the back

The man in the back
Seat waited, unseen, watching.
Black suit, white tie, gloves.

"No news is good news"

"No news is good news"
The empty mailbox might claim.
Lonely, know better.

The coffee is cold

The coffee is cold
And burnt. The cups all dirty.
I sit staring, lost.

The time flies by

The time flies by
Driven by three propellers
Fast, medium, slow.

The singer's crooning

The singer's crooning
Haunts the world, lingering though
The singer's gone home.

Poverty I know

Poverty I know
not. Such bounty one can find
In so bright a face.

Brush of hand on arm

Brush of hand on arm
Both their hidden intents shown
She waited, he moved.