Perpetual Notion

Food, just for the soul.
When morals have no price tag,
a stomach will shrink.

Not just with no heart,
but jobs founded on malice.
Such is their offer.

Accomplishment is,
needed for some sign of worth.
But with no employ…

A fistful, have I,
of project and creation.
Self, transcends the work.

Words will be present,
whether planted into rows
or floated in thought.

Marbles found rolling
aimless circles in a dish
will be played someday

But why rush the rye,
with the oven, perfect warm?
Eat it tomorrow.

External clock ticks.
The internal one bounces.
More time for more words.

So curriculum,
has become my trip these days.
No sailing past it.

Living lesson plans
from one day to the next day.
Breathing by treading.

But I shall surface,
and climb onto familiar
ground that I may stand.

For so it has been,
that a dive into the thick,
will come out on top.

An empty wrapper
from muffin weighs heavily
on a smallish plate.

Three inches further,
my table neighbor’s plate sits
and does so with food.

His looks no better.
Likely it is worse even,
but there it still is.

He would not miss if
a nibble I were to take.
Yes, just a nibble.

While he walks the bass
I just read a few pages
and born is our groove

The concept not young,
but borrowed from Kerouac
and others less known.

Of journal and jazz,
strum, thumb, pluck, and punch the prose.
Watch as we discuss.

There is more to come
So place your ear on the stage
delight in our notes.

Job hunting season.
And who will make the killing?
Trudging through the snow.

No blaze orange outfit,
but a highlighter in hand.
Circles on paper.

Covering my smell,
with a shower and clean clothes,
will better my odds.

Take aim, give a shot.
For I have to eat somehow.
Will I land a buck?

Tonight is a slightly different Haiku. A friend and I, once at a coffee shop, created more of a free-verse haiku. The method: he writes one syllable, I write two, he three, me four, and so on until deemed done. He has stepped back home from Alaska, and we once more have done it, four of us in fact…

Touch
sour lips
if blood drips
use tourniquet
to quench the flow of
consciousness beneath a
a boarded plank bridge which shifts
swaying in the November wind
on this night, the last child of the month
why is it that the cheese continues on?
My bull-dog named Zed rode a pinkish skate-board
fire water spiked with sugar, chase with hip hop.

Black Friday is not
the day that I buy your love,
but instead, my own.

The comfort I find
in the chase of a purchase,
tucks me into bed.

It is not the case
that I dislike the giving,
but I buy for me.

Do not get me wrong.
Despite all the crap, for you
I would wait in line.

It is endearing
that Woody Allen loves sports,
the frail cat he is.

And Friday night starts,
and is done so correctly,
with one of his films

Humor sits tip top.
On his comedic coat tails
I ride through my eve.

A self-hating Jew,
for a night wrapped in chuckles,
to you I prescribe.

I had my first snow,
today while upon my bike,
and I did not fall.

Snow first fell before,
but not on or around me,
and so I missed it.

It came to the cold,
while I sat beside the warm
sunshine of Nashville.

But I have returned
for greeting an old cold friend,
so hands we may shake.