Haiku Daily


the door is opened

the doorway is dark

noonday light surrounds its frame


Final Draft

A question I could ask

But do not.

A theme turned motif

In my poetry.

What I should do, but don’t,

Should have, but didn’t,

Would do, but won’t.

Later, in Life

I wonder about

all the former friends

from my life, no longer–

friends too of my parents,

relatives lost–

I make French Toast for breakfast often–

fragments I try to collect,

shattered remembering,

life is only lived,

what I take,




Love is the soul of genius, I recall having said that Mozart had said . . .

I was younger, how much younger than I ever was at any time before . . .

How old, I forget, memories sometimes seize me, the passive actor,

In Memoriam . . . the man suicided by society–I clearly recollect Artaud . . .


I had an oversized poster of Van Gogh’s bedroom at Arles hanging on the wall

above my bed for a time, again, how much time, no gain

The clock always ticking against him–

I used to say his life could have been written by Poe.


There was not one Van Gogh exhibition that had ever come to NYC that I did not attend . . .

The first I recall with my parents . . . I think I recollect my parents–

How can one not, a boy re-imagining his parents taking him to see Van Gogh.


How past is the past when thinking of the past in mind–there is a mind–

There can’t only be brain.


I imagine I see that it was at the Brooklyn Museum,

The exact time and specific place are not relevant, never have been relevant

never could be

The beginning of modern art?

A question following a set of inquiries–

No two words are ever completely synonymous.


There is no greater vitality or energy from any canvas painted by anyone?

I ask recalling someone, some she, having said, without the interrogative inflection.

I did not say the greatest vitality . . . that was some other’s diction.


Equal to any painter anyone might imagine is the greatest–meaning what?

When I don’t disband with superlatives,

I tweak them.