Another day gone

Another day gone,
I spent
smoking cigarettes

and read Haiku,
a form,
(I confess)

I don't even quiet get,
its seventeen syllable etiquette,
a season: winter spirng summer fall,

already installed for me,
and then,
the surprise,

as neatly and predictably wrapped inside
as a fortune and a fortune cookie.
I don't ever write

those clipped, hygienic lines,
the don't ever indulge
but simply meditate breathe,

sit in perfect posture upon the page.
My tendency is to take
the image out

of nature, empty it
of its earth, squander
its other elements,

its fire wind and rain...
My tendency is to incarnate,
flesh it out, flesh it out

until the image becomes
voluptuous, fattening
almost to obesity.

Until the image becomes
a woman,
standing in line in front of me,

buying junk food, reading tabloids,
her heart,
because she does not know

the meaning
of the word discipline,
about to explode.