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.

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