I once knew a man
named Dada Haiku
If John Kerry were a breakfast,
what would he be like?
Not all that tasty, I suspect,
but still a hell of a lot better than
I used to work for a charity organization;
I didn’t volunteer or anything,
they gave me a job,
a paying job.
The shortest poem ever written
was a poem that just said:
Harry Potter’s an enigma.
His forehead bears a peculiar stigma.
Yet there’s a question I’ve often pondered,
a complex query which no puzzle surpasses:
I am yes, and you are no,
and between the two, we both might show,
how man can dream his dream so well,
and find the magic within the spell.
The city is short today
and it can’t be anymore
than just a few blocks wide today
and the city is grey today,
Bukowski ate my liver!
I would never have believed it,
if I were not right there
when it happened.
Many people tell me
that my poetry