Haikus are good fun
But not so much, as I may say
As breaking rules

The wrinkled, old, decrepit Man of grey
Succumbs to death with graceful dignity,
In doing so, his senescent poignance
Reminds us all of our mortality.

In death he lives vicar’ously through us
And serves to show of our impending fray,
As we one day will live through those ‘neath us
Dead--As an old, decrepit Man of grey.

The spilt secrets cannot deter our faith
In people’s souls– Their virtue and sincerity,
For if we lose our hope in our humanity,
We’ll be afraid to live and love again,
Instead we’ll lock our doors to joy with hate
And there we’ll cloistral sit alone and safe,
But how could we content such lonesome life?
Rather we should, we must, accept reality;
Better vulnerable to such brutality
And live life faithful of humanity
Than not to live at all.

So I believed, I could build a lover

      One that could walk with me so perfectly

Under the bridge; secrecy we uncover,

      Because for me, I know it’s time to be

The architect of perfect love I need,

      So run with me, my love, throughout the rain

Forget restraints and chains, and we'll be freed,

      I've lost my will to search for love to tame

So be flawless; a perfection for me.

      I wish only to stop looking in vain

If only I could make her perfectly

      Then life would surely be free of that pain.


            Alas, I am no god, for there are none,

            My lov’r is vis’ble as the midnight sun.

How is one to help one’s self amidst
This age of screens and brightly buzzing button fiends?
Ever growing, infiltrating, accelerating glowing screens
are stimulating brain and eye and ear machines,
no matter where you go, pupils of caffeine,
or so they’d seem, are seen seeing screens
dilating from the grasping of a human dream
Of digital immortality.

Foolish beetle, rolling a ball of waste,
Do not you know your feces has no worth?

What a waste of the precious gift of life
In light of bright white stars and vast blue seas,
There is so much more in the world than dung,
Alas with indefatigable grit,
Perhaps a curse of Darwinian perfection,
You pack and push your single earthly thing,
From place to place. It is the only life
You know or have been taught to know.
And though I want to pity you, small arthropod,
I too know how it feels to wander on one’s own,
Wondering why and when the time to quit
Amassing an incessant ball of ****.

That which they lack in longevity
They compensate with in narcissistic egotrocity.
Such odd creatures, those confined within humanity,
Always over-estimating, over-conjecturing
Their place and meaning in this yet to be
Disillusioned, elaborate, erratic cosmic infinity.

No other animal I since created
Have made such self-absorbed, conceited notions
Comp’rable to humanoid emotion.

I am ashamed to call them mine,
But it is so. I need not intervene,
For ere the end of World War Three,
They surely will relinquish me
Of my senseless exercise in futility.