Haiku Typhoon

Subject doesn’t rhyme.

I know, call the poem cops.

Fuck them, then fuck you.

It is now August.

Title bump at work.  Big Whoop.

Less Time.  Less Dollars.

Jen’s in Morocco

Shopping for kitschy round things.

Soon to be kidnapped.

Unloaded a sum

at Nordstrom’s sale.  But alas,

too hot to show off.

Golfing more often,

Still can’t drive, still can’t putt, but,

Skilled at dirty words.

One more month, and then

A new day, a new way, in

slummy First Hill house.

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