Another set of Haikus.

This a haiku.
It comes on like a hooker,
then gives YOU money.

This is another.
I cannot stress this enough,
that words mean nothing.

Some haikus are Frank.
Others are Selma Louise.
But this one's an Anne.

This was meant to be
the Devil's haiku,
but it's five five five.

That wasn't really
a haiku. More like something
out of a nightmare.

Speaking of nightmare,
I spoke to your mother and
she said she's dying.

Let's get simple here.
She's not made of stainless steal.
She was bound to rust.

left bosom--expired visa

with different terms--it bothers me
every fucking instant
i want to give myself a break
before i go crazy--
o heaven forgive me
for such wreched heart and words
but where can i go and what can i do
would not be a relevant question for you
i am damn sure about that

can i finish this poem when i get back myself
as lovers revive once they meet after
years of separation?
hello america
broken i am if that makes you happy
refugee--i am in all left bosom
half daze--
blue feeling--
second thought--
everything within a pot
hello america
are you breathing?
hello america!

Mambo #1

Gas station: House of the Rising
Water—(yeah, that’s it right there).
staring staring in line, circle movement.

sun, trash in ditch: bags
beads cups
shifting in the wind
glistening in the dirt and trample of feet.
heavy bass quakes treble conical concentrations blast.

black vehicle, all-terrain
jacked-up and turning music into
weapon with Einstein #1;
kids & candy apples & beer.

preteen dancers (have they broken
into song?) white ice-cream style trucks
handing out hot-dogs, funnel cakes, fried
fish, fried sausage, chicken-on-a-stick.

(look the preteen dancers are taking a break)
No, they’re dancing the Tootsie Roll
on Lewis.

(I didn’t mean to asshole! ((yeah asshole
!)))

opposing swamp boogies smash into sirens and synchronized
police cyclists, swimming, swimming
in circles, lines, triangles,
all flashing blue light clashing
feverous motor growls into
the elderly.

transparently flocking
down in deep ditch are the rodents they eat
and eat and eat beer and brightly colored cakes
that make them see funny things on the street:
children fighting with balls larger
than a tricycle or

bike carriage with her big eyes fake in the glasses like a Chinese rice hat; she pedals off racistly carrying a family happy to share
a hat a seat shade: unlike the poor Chinese girl:
she slaves away in her seat
each morning before the sun
she cuts her porridge with water.

after food: red beans, rice
meat w/horseradish sauce, vegetables w/guacamole
and crumbled bread that dribbled
onto shirt.

I was Born In Quebec City by Mooner Quazum

[edited by admin]

Gettin' the blues; drunk and nude.
I was Born In Quebec City by Mooner Quazum

Des Haikus

This is a haiku.
It's not very long but it
will make you wander.

This is another.
They just come right out of me.
Like a bowel movement.

This was a haiku
until I used eight syllables
in the second line.

What is a haiku?
I can't for the life of me
think of an answer.

This is a haiku.
Inuendo is a foot.
Like Pussy Willows.

M.Q.

I'm a blog virgin.

How in the lords green earth

is it that I can go about

posting an audio clip?

M.Q.

Post Postmodern World

         Computers write our poems:

:\\

            a thousand faces in sand

some things                         never change

    light and     filled with shreds

                      cantaloupe

                  frozen peas

              dinner dates

          lips                         synched

//:

 This is the post postmodern world

       colors are blankets we wear

            shoes are made of moving things (like megabytes)

transiting freedom our computers are our children or dogs and cats

     some people find that cars are dying but most people agree they are fun

          our grandparents are made of metal and we are made of plastic

our food is plastic too

instantaneous becoming has made it hard to grow

   Oh and we love green, green is the post postmodern color

               the post postmodern world shimmers in daytime when our crystals

                            froth up our electrolytes and we just plug our valves and keep truckin

coffee is not longer served, neither is tea, we sip octaves above batteries but

                              cylindrical nonetheless our lips shiver at the touch and glow

            we go go go; it’s the post postmodern world we don’t have time to sleep

    (we watch TV) and there is always time for a good tweet

              if you don’t understand, click here

                     when we dream it’s about buying pants or meat or telecommunication

that’s right, the cell phone is still a thing, prone to blinking our eyes

              we can’t wait for the next Ipad, when it rains you can hold out your hand

                  because now the rain is green (it’s really a lot better that way)