Week-Long Haikus

Were you just looking
to see whether you still liked
what you saw, with clothes?

Should they fall from boughs
and make of me an autumn
would you still want me?

Smallness on body
folding you into myself
—winter approaches

How close is beauty!
and o, how frequent it is!
Blossoms and blizzard.

Snowfall, then melting
—vanishing flakes in midair
—all is ephem’ral

Loneliness a bed
of charcoal ringed by white snow:
I’m here, you’re flowing

“May it never breathe”:
mistakes as ripened apples,
serpent’s tree and fruit.

Smoking Haibun

My ash-stained jacket,
poor Marl—oh—boro smoke-stings,
and the chill of frost

Fingers and toes numb
fumbling with sweet-tea smoke-sticks
—a cough. Raven croaks

too much up the nose, too much in the lung—I’m not really even fucking smoking this right. too quick, almost burning my lips! having the damn thing fall apart on me. no buzz either. should try menthol?

Like I’d enjoy it—
“here bro, try this out, good shit”—
ash all over snow

is it more artistic to write and smoke?
it’s not like the air here’s that much cleaner anyway, all feces, fertilizer, fuel, plastic, farms, exhaust, Somali, farm. none of this is good for my body so may as well try and get a buzz to boot on the side. and the weed, the fucking weed

these stream of consciousness schizo-fragments probably aren’t a good sign. Maybe it’s the start of cracking up. is that what that looks like? would I even get very far?

Last one in the pack.
My lighter’s useless again.
Goose flock flying north

An element of
smoke still lingers on knuckles:

“may it never see the light of day” alternates between a curse and a cry at times. whether the “artistry” of my pen on ink or the little daily embarrassments i make of myself, the thousand-odd blessings and millions-strong curses woven into daily life. whether i treat others the way they should be treated, the way I mean to treat them, or anything else gets overruled by reflex.