It’s possible these hives are not:
There is no round, pink, bulbous spot
Emerging from the freckled plane
Of my forearm, and I’m insane,
Imagining these dermal blights
Embrailling elbow pits at heights
That drive the bites of fleas or ants
To writhe an I’m not worthy dance.
It’s possible, but still they itch.
Spring allergies are such a bitch.

We’re Blowing It

I grew up military
All my friends were service spawn
At least three generations
Of my kin had unis on

I honor and respect this land
And all those who protect it
When one who doesn’t’s in command
It’s on us to correct it

The office and the occupant
Are very different things
I head to bed each night with dread
For what tomorrow brings

This president’s an insult
To the servicefolk who serve him
So drop the smirk you selfish jerk
You’ve shown you don’t deserve ’em

Today we mark the memory
Of those who fell in war
I dream that we someday will be
Again worth fighting for

A nation where those most in need
Find shelter and self-worth
Lest those we honor shall in vain
Have perished from the earth

Tipping The King

The longer I wonder what I’m going to write,
The later the hour, the shorter the night,
The greater the pressure to simply break down
And hawk up a haiku. C’mon, make me laugh, clown!
And that’s what I’ve done: I apologize for
Declaring a stalemate (but stand by for more).


There’s no guarantee that doing good
Will be rewarded–even that it should,
Despite that thing about its own reward:
Sharp edges breed like bunnies on that sword.
If doing good requires sacrifice,
Might I submit the benefit’s the price
The actor has to pay to do the deed?
To be considered useful is a need
That every–almost every–human shares.
Unrequitessence: Nothing else compares.