I've been entering the daily haiku contest at poetry.com, hoping to win a 
free mousepad with one of my haiku on it. I feel I'm getting close.

Look at that monkey,
dancing all the winter long
wearing flannel pants.
							
Celestial Aether
drifts to earth through autumn leaves
making my scalp itch

Secret Agent Duck
approaches the coast at dawn.
Mars, above. Silent.

waves against the rocks
and some fruitcake standing there,
ruining the view

lazy afternoon.
standing in the river with
soggy galoshes.

I want a monkey,
to bathe me in the morning                              
and bake cakes at night.  

CNN photo:
a moose standing on asphalt.
Swing Electorate.

driftwood in the surf
and the voices of children
whacked out on goofballs

What the fuck is wrong?
Edit your config.sys!
Code Blue, bitch! Code Blue!

waterfalls made of
intelligent divine fire.
supersymmetry

Trees and grass obscured,
covered with frozen water.
Why, Muad'Dib? Why?

Seattle rainstorm.
The ship-canal bridge dissolves
in a bank of fog.

Now advertising
RPC over port 80.
Welcome to Wormsville.

Buy a new windshield
and get 24 free meals
from La Azteca.

Damn, I miss winter.
We get fuck-all here for snow;
a few flakes at best.

The Mahdi Army,
rising in Baghdad, resists
the occupation.

damp seattle noon
kids smoking blunts on first ave
laughing at the sqaures

The name of action.
-- Soft you now! The Shadout Mapes,
hunting the future!

Free samples of wine
and pleasant conversation
at the local pub.

The trick to haiku
is coming up with something
that Issa didn't.

Frosted plum blossoms
through the sights of a rifle.
Chills run down my back.

Mold in my rifle,
and who the fuck knows what
is living in my socks.

Cries come from the mosques,
"War has come to Babylon!"
The great worm rises.

The worm will not come
if you walk without rhythm.
Bi-la kaifa, bitch!

The present is not.
It is but a thin membrane
between 'then' and 'when.'

Speeding through Tikrit
in a stolen Russian Jeep
and damp underpants.

This fresh pile of goo
used to be my best friend's face.
Pass the heroin.

The important thing
is that we've found the weapons
of mass destruction.

Congratulations!
Your one-year tour of duty
has been extended!

The scent of cordite
and the corpses of children
littering the streets.

Email from Tikrit
after spending hours playing
Battlefield: Vietnam.

Look out for Charlies,
they're hiding up in the trees!
Goddammit, Kenny!

Cricket-song at dusk,
and the moonlight falling on
piles of the dead.

Bikini contests
in the defense of freedom.
Winning hearts and minds.

Ninja Burger, bitch!
Your satisfaction, or we
commit seppuku.

Wanks at the Red Door,
bitch about rulesets on their
commercial firewalls.

Bottled water is
supplied by Haliburton.
"Fighting for freedom."

Hospital dresses
and the inconvenience of
a poo-free lifestyle.

Sacking Hue City
in a war simulation.
Digital realism.

Billions spent on war. 
Millions live in poverty.
Hybrid SUVs.

Nmapping dot mil
from a wireless laptop
in a coffee shop.

The squeal of hard drives,
harbinger of data loss
RAID arrays are key.

Jets over Baghdad
drowning out the call to prayer.
Long summer mornings.

My bionic wife
is now recouperating.
Kameha-meha!

Sunbreak in the woods
steam drifts up from beaten paths
trees whisper of plots

the willow tree hosts
a family of panthers
please wade cautiously

the scent of fresh mint
and wet piles of fallen leaves
atop the corpses

sweet cherry blossoms
and a trio of white swans
befouling my pool

If I've told you once
I've told you a thousand times:
Let me have some fish!

reflection of trees
rippling on a lake's surface
badgers in my hair

Hey, is it just me
or is that sailboat on fire?
I don't think it's me.

sun through golden leaves
and a squealing, high-pitched wail
cat stuck up a tree

Sing ye now of fire,
Flying Spaghetti Monster,
and, yea, fuck shit up.

So, I said to May. . .
Aaah! It's BANKJIRA!!!
Sell your bonds! Sell!! SELL!!!

Pray, son of Leto,
Phoebus, the wandering knight,
lend us light and strength.

a coup in fiji
not clear who is in control
Bainimarama

curdles in coffee
and an overwhelming urge
not to go to work

a dusting of snow
following torrential rain
the death of autumn

Ivars seafood bar
makes a mean caesar salad
you _are_ the sugar

fishcake in cold soup
and a cup of boiling fat
sits on the stove-top

On a clear spring day
I can see Mt. Olympus
from my back window

(c) 2008 ray at lenin dot net