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.

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