Haiku  ?
What  you want    ISN’T  POETRY
Nor,  is  what you are  making .  Its a crossword puzzle!
Restricted,
confined
not necessarily useless, but unwanted  by  the  rest of  us.
What  I want is
not  poetry .
ITS A
SOAPBOX ,
not respected
Obeyed !

(Don’t  expect  us  to revel in your artificial cleverness. I can’t  candy  coat my sledgehammer  for the smug little puzzle palace where people confuse compression  with clarity and restraint with relevance or innovation. )

It’s not the form that’s brilliant . Neither  is  a form  that hinders  it. It’s the purported slickness of mediocrity pretending to be insight.
Like rain-slick ****: shiny on top, but still just ****** over processed  garbage.
No real expression  had  syllable  count as its impetus !

Yor lame  brevity without weight is really  just laziness and incompetence .  What should  have  been a  paragraph hacked to death isn’t automatically profound. It’s like handing someone a bag of bread crumbs and saying, “Enjoy your gourmet  sandwich.”
Most real writers can and  do enjoy words and or at least a complete  thought with actual  depth..

Why  do  you  Want  to mimic Basho, any way ?   Are  you a scared  feckless samurai boy  toy  trapped in  a ***** house  that serves  tea ? Are you socially stunted  and   rambling through  a whispering ******* zen garden ?
Are you being  forced to pretend  enjoyment in polite  torture  or can you not  tell  poetry from sudoku?
Emasculated wannabe samurai-boy’s at tea-party about to turn ****,
crybaby
daddy issues
art  act,
much ?

Haiku  ?
What  you want    ISN’T  POETRY
Nor,  is  what you are  making .  Its a crossword puzzle!
Restricted,
confined
not necessarily useless, but unwanted  by  the  rest of  us.
What  I want is
not  poetry .
ITS A
SOAPBOX ,
not respected
Obeyed !

(Don’t  expect  us  to revel in your artificial cleverness. I can’t  candy  coat my sledgehammer  for the smug little puzzle palace where people confuse compression  with clarity and restraint with relevance or innovation. )

It’s not the form that’s brilliant . Neither  is  a form  that hinders  it. It’s the purported slickness of mediocrity pretending to be insight.
Like rain-slick ****: shiny on top, but still just ****** over processed  garbage.
No real expression  had  syllable  count as its impetus !

Yor lame  brevity without weight is really  just laziness and incompetence .  What should  have  been a  paragraph hacked to death isn’t automatically profound. It’s like handing someone a bag of bread crumbs and saying, “Enjoy your gourmet  sandwich.”
Most real writers can and  do enjoy words and or at least a complete  thought with actual  depth..

Why  do  you  Want  to mimic Basho, any way ?   Are  you a scared  feckless samurai boy  toy  trapped in  a ***** house  that serves  tea ? Are you socially stunted  and   rambling through  a whispering ******* zen garden ?
Are you being  forced to pretend  enjoyment in polite  torture  or can you not  tell  poetry from sudoku?
Emasculated wannabe samurai-boy’s at tea-party about to turn ****,
crybaby
daddy issues
art  act,
much ?

The crow in the tree
Is actually          
A black trash bag.    

Love ties bows
around garbage bins.

Turns losses into wins.

Brightens a sky,
shortens a queue.

Changes one into two.

Cool morning:
A garbage truck sings
To a steel wool sky.

a sentry guard laments the day his mother went out for milk
a cool mist slowly approaches him and begins licking his boots unaware that his pinky toe is peeking out of his sock begging for a taste of the blistering wind

he stands at attention
a noice emanates from the woods at his fifteen hundred
he totes his gun on his right shoulder and begins the approach
the noise somewhere between shriek and shrill leads him to a clearing in the woods where he sees a man of not more than forty years of age speckled stubble upon his face
walking around in circles with stick in the ground

he's got that look in his eye
a mutter a conversation a yell
a symphony

of sound

peonies for the poor folk a bushel of roses for the dead dandelions for the prayers speckled as dust crackled as wood he who seeks fortune shall make do with crumbs fire overhead a love overheard this time there's no way out we litter the past we litter the waters we litter whatever is left of our hallowed grounds

if only mother knew
if only mother knew

the sentry stands at attention

he brings his rifle down from his shoulder and raises it to his face

ah yes


the garble

These poems are generally spat out within a matter of minutes.
The rhyme schemes, unfortunately,
Symptomatic of how my thoughts flow.
Some kind of horrible harmony
That stalls and slows the more focus I show.