Just cause I wrote it
doesn’t make it haiku, or
even readable.

Poetry is dead.
Poetry rots in its tomb.
Poetry rises.

Sufis and Taoists
meditating while they’re drunk
contemplating . . . wine.

Zen haiku trashcan:
paused to throw out an image
and kill the Buddha.

I alone, a god
raise high the bleeding trophy:
Haiku’s severed head.

In the pale moonlight,
old pine leans over water
and it’s all Trump’s fault.

Basho-san, master,
the frog has leapt long ago
it was green as Kek.

www.badhaiku.com