The moon is not full of dreamy light. The moon is full of….well,…the moon. One could say the moon is full of rock, I guess. Yes, lots and lots of rock. And the moon is not a hole punched in anything, either. It shines like ….well, it shines like the moon, I guess. It shines like a ball of rock. Up there. In the sky. Where it winks its cold eyes at the sun.
No, no, not the Japanese haiku master and the German Psychologist, but the brilliant blog-child of Jon Petruschke. He has written one (or more) dream haiku per day for the last three hundred and sixty five days! Quite an accomplishment. You should definitely be following these little gems of surreal wisdom.
So, in his (and Basho and Jung‘s) honor, I have written a dream haiku of my own.
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Remember that time
we both lost our memory?
Yeah, me neither.
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Oh…and did I mention we were separated at birth?
I, however, am fortunate to remember nothing about this little ensemble…
Happy Blogirthday, Basho and Jung!
“Well, you know what they say about poets.” “No. What do they say?” “You don't know? Shit. I was hoping you could tell me.”
Just so you know, you don't look like you just got out of bed. You look like someone who just spent $100 to look like someone who just got out of bed.
It’s funny how when they're laid out like this before you—butterflied, boned, and splayed on the cutting board, quietly speaking and reeking so subtly of death—funny how much they resemble that same symbol of the very thing which they once covered, which no longer beats, that symbol of a symbol of life and love and how appropriate it is after all, because I do love life and yes, I do indeed love boobs. (Just in case anyone has been thinking that I have been getting terribly serious, "deep" or (gods forbid) "full of pathos", this will undoubtedly divest said persons of any such silly notions...)
There may in fact be a supermassive black hole at the center of our galaxy, in the midst of all that light, and I am convinced beyond any dark matter of a doubt that through that hole, on the other side of that event horizon, through that single singularity, there is a wet red wheel barrow and some white chickens. Everything depends on it.
A Prayer Like Gravity 