Haikus III

As rough and slick as
gravel roads washed out by rain,
her voice meanders.

Glow of the t.v.
as celebrities dazzle;
anglerfish culture.

Radio chatter
splits the quiet night in two—
sawblade’s static scream.

A dress of barbed wire
weighted at every joint;
fibromyalgia.

Crimson manuscript
for the nineteenth century;
tuberculosis.

The crow-nosed killjoys
flocking to this morbid dance;
black plague doctors.

Nostalgia is just
a dog biting his own tail,
thinking pain pleasure.

Disappointment is
a flasher in a trench coat
on a nudist beach.

How might I extract
the needless needles from your
pin-cushion heart?

Cleopatra died
with an asp clasped to her breast,
yet many nurse worse.

Haikus should be like
sushi rolls on a platter:
raw, yet well-crafted.

A sudden kick to the face
from a donkey bitten by deerflies—
damn this hayfever whiplash!

Right wing radio is a
dim campfire for telling ghost stories
and scaring adults stupid.

The atomic bomb brightened
the world, burning our Dark Age away—
why, then, do these shadows stay?

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