American Haiku

Academia transplanted
into the mud of my lustful fever;
hers is my honey.

A throat full of lavender and sage,
upchucking
memorabilia from the war.

Crystalline giraffe,
pop culture iconography;
a swell skin to be within.

Moistened mouth sputtering
transcendental cornucopia
projectile vomit.

A mirthful hollow
set aside the cistern of the sun,
and ease your pain in ashes.

Helium and hydrogen;
smashing atoms,
this is my wet dream.

I have a collection of bird feathers,
enough to swallow
the sun.

Play with me,
the opening scene
of The Flinstones.

Yabba
Dabba
Doo

Migratory enlightenment
a curse to everyone who wails,
and wants deliverance from pain.

Three stories up,
between our selves and our daughters;
the light skims the surface.

Open
the monogamy
of adultery.

Influence and external
confluence.
These are the way of the Tao.

Pajamas,
post-processors,
placebo of my devotion.

A tightly-knit
corruption of data;
enough to vacate the premises.

You talk sometimes as though you don’t want to listen;
I listen sometimes as though I don’t want to talk.
We are incompatible.

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire
in the streets of Rome,
They smell so goddamned good.

Hospitalization
is the cornerstone
of a good relationship.

Pulling apart my consciousness like taffy;
and seeing your figure
cast into the pull.

This is just a love poem,
one I wrote
for you.

Self-referential abdomen;
seething secondary fits
of dire miscalculation.

Horns
growing
form the scalp.

I’ve no concern for angels
or devils anymore.
Helium is my religion.

No father,
no mother,
no daughter.

Your body grows on me
like a plague, and your
consciousness streams like bad TV.

Help me through the mire,
with your intoxicating marijuana breath;
with your gentle words.

Love is in the air,
heavy like rain,
or atomic bombs.

This is a love poem,
about herpes.
And malnutrition.

Fecal matter
becomes the reality TV show horror
we adhere to.

Something sweeter
than suckers;
oh god I love to kiss your sucker puckers.

I was in 1st grade,
pissing on the walls in the restroom
when the nuns found me and took me away.

Punch drunk;
yours is a literal
manifestation.

Hemoglobin sunset realization,
castration, the blood in the sky
bearing down on the Western culture.

Can you manipulate the frequency of my desires,
spill out the references to God and Helium,
and make my back stop hurting?

Implosion,
as two lovers kiss,
too quickly. Without taking the time to undress.

My last poem for the day:
nude poet
sitting at the laptop, writing American haiku.

American Haiku

Contextual migration,
counter culture storm,
in isosceles transposition.

Brainwashed encyclopedic virtue,
catacombed
tripod irreverent fuckability.

Kafka out on holiday,
showing the plants their
putrid and immutable perceptions.

Notice me.
The clear thread
tied around your waist.

Intoxicate me.
Clear your throat, and suck on
cough drops for spell.

Moonlit recreation of God;
maybe in pigtails as the plants
send out their pollen to the feeders.

Moist lips,
dried herb,
experimental hypothesis.

You float like an angel,
coming from the Wounded Knee,
and I perceive your heresies.

It is in
marble;
your heredity.

I used to
hold a candle towards the night,
when everything was in shambles.

A period of saltwater
taffy;
consumption.

Dry heaves,
in the park,
Autumn’s illusory romance.

The tip of a Roman candle,
burning,
on New Year’s Eve.

Her bong was
manageable in size,
petite.

A cough syrup kiss,
with honey on the tip
of her throat,

A chance to prove
what makes the clocks tick
and makes me want to unlock the suitcase.

Cartoons & bubble gum,
a polystyrene wedding
based on pricked skin.

Motion sickness
at 2:30 am;
the blurred reunion of comfort foods.

Genitals in the place
of vocal chords, we spew
and we sputter our love.

No more flirtatious advances,
only butterfly kisses
on the thigh.

You skim the ocean’s
black mass;
looking for redemption.

Ovaries spilling used metaphors,
cry as you might,
this is the way of the Tao.

Paragraph #2;
chalk full of imagery,
seemingly saying nothing in return.

A cold press
on warm
romanticism.

Glock candied puckerer;
the fusion of cerebral cores
mixed up in violence.

Fragrance to bloom to
osteoporosis,
on Valentine’s.

Folklore of androgynous
Sasquatch, peeling their ways
through the mountain pass.

Orgies of
miscalculated risks;
gone awry.

He was a married man,
you were a married man,
and I have never been a married man.

Dachsund diving through
a snowy peak;
respiration of desperation.

Orange glow
on the face of young college students,
a falsified tan.

What hue is my desire?
She is the color of chestnut,
basking in an open flame.

This purple thread
of polyester,
colors my walls.

I will not speed.
I will not speed.
I will go the limit.

Fused with irony,
this copy of a soldier
stands at the foot of our bed.

A heater in the month of June,
that’s why it’s so goddamned hot in here,
because your picture hangs on the wall.

Tonight,
as lengths of string belie,
and angels’ hymns
retreat into
the cavity of my desires.

Your open wound,

Wherein you keep
your heart.

I watch as its flesh
beats.

And mine,
perhaps more easily accessible,
perhaps closer to the surface of the skin,
beats.
Pluck the fruit of my tenacity,
when you are ready.

Until then,
I will watch you
as a distant star,

Or as a closer, heated thing;
based on your proximity to me.

This is our contingency plan:

To take the shit out of the cupboards.

To salt the earth.

To take into consideration every goddamned word.

Home leaves me
trampled by waves
of glass.

Your home,
the world I know nothing of,
keeps me fascinated.

Alone, and alone.
Two unremarkable
lives.

With glistening immortality.

Test run.

Do we have time
to deny our love?
Do we have time
to dismiss concurrency?

I throw my shit down,
on the ground,
outside your apartment.
And we throw down.

Not with fists,
nor with words.

We fuck each other over
with the calluses of the past.
And my history
with love’s affairs.

Goddamned gorgeous girl,
through and through,
charm me with your laughter,
seduce me with the pearls
of your imagination.

Immobile & transcendent.

The tents of gods and men,
as prescribed in the Book of Vaginal Secretions.

Duly prophesied and
quarantined.

The game of liquor consumption
leads to war. Leads to his expulsion.

Fuck me.
With the intentions of calculated risk,
beat the fuck out of my
serial lies and my methodical ignorance.

To please me,
drop your heart
from the balcony
and trust in me
to break its fall.

Before it shatter.