Haiku is to prose what chicken wings are to a rack of ribs. It is smaller, less filling, yet tastes phenomenal and alters perceptions of boredom and ugliness for the short span of time while you are munching it down, or in the case of a poetry reading, listening to sound and content. There hasn't been a poem written yet that cures acne, while KFC is fucking near famous for causing clogged pores, pimples and blackheads. Yet demand for fried chicken far exceeds demand for anthologies. This is part of a far greater celestial force, best compared to the main stream media, which is turning fucking near everyone into a drooling idiot. The stars can tell us all facts under the sun, but leave it to us to not read the instructions and fuck everything up completely.
For these reasons and more, I plan to continue, with a small nose-gay of conviction, to compose and present the not-too-fucking-world-shaking media call 'haiku.' I dumped one in the space directly below this blog entry, on the subject of haiku. I will be posting more opinions about the humanities, in general, as all media impacts our great and small, grand and hairy lives. Thanks again for being you and for being here. You're peachy.
For these reasons and more, I plan to continue, with a small nose-gay of conviction, to compose and present the not-too-fucking-world-shaking media call 'haiku.' I dumped one in the space directly below this blog entry, on the subject of haiku. I will be posting more opinions about the humanities, in general, as all media impacts our great and small, grand and hairy lives. Thanks again for being you and for being here. You're peachy.
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