3 haikus

two cups of hot tea

flavors await eager lips

steam rises between



a healthy wait is

measured in moments of time

apart then made whole



the hunter disarmed

feels naked, gelded, and lost

searching for cover


Hocus Focus

What is my focus?

Why am I here,

and not there

or nowhere?


Am I qualified to answer such questions,

as a shadow blind to its own existence?

Who exists?

I, or the guy

casting characters

with empty hands

traipsing in solitary confinement

by the backlit parted door?


Forget this self-

abnegation to a muttering fool

that dictates my every move

in obtuse turns and stops.

He listens to the trees and the breeze,

yet he turns his back on me

like I’m a painful past

he runs from on a treadmill.


What is my focus?

And why am I stuck in the room

with this dysphoric mess

deaf, dumb, and blind to me?

Sure, I may lose myself in shades

or creep obliquely behind his back,

even split into a menagerie of actors

bored, without direction or a script,

improvising to pass

the blanching corrosion of time.


For better or worse,

till death do we part,

I am a part of you

like you are a part of me

so don’t pretend you and I

can live this story separately,

as a shadow puppet without a master

and a master without an illusion.


What is my focus?

the confluence of light, dark

and the body in motion between

wandering wondering

what the peculiar shadows

could be whispering.

Under the Pregnant Moon

Something like bearing witness to a rape and murder

behind unbreakable glass. The air has been taken,

yet I do not suffocate. At least it doesn’t feel that way,

but I do not feel at all. Even anger and sadness escape me.

I am neither hot nor cold. Everybody’s gone,

but a ghostly reflection stares back through

from every direction horizontally.


I look up in

to the cloudless night.

A pregnant half-moon,

a trillion dead stars

make everything

clearer than day.


I look down upon my feet

an inch or two above the ground.

A lake of blood blossoms out

over the broken asphalt.

I am somehow spared the touch of the creeping fluid

spilled from the hearts of unknown men, women, and children.


Without knowing why, I expel what I expect to be a scream,

but not a whimper heard. Just a gust of icy fog that instantly



Is this reality?

Is this a dream?

Is this another place

between death and awakening?