One of my favorite poets, and probably one of the most influential of this century, Haiku Football, passed away today, at the age of eight months. His death left me stunned, stereotypical, and old. I felt somehow responsible, as if I killed him, which in a way I had, though in my defense it wasn't my own machete that I plunged deep into his spinal column. But I still felt a tad bit guilty. He had, after all, left me loose-leaf paper in his
will. . .five hundred sheets of it, upon which were written over and over again "Please, help me God, Jesus, mother dearest, anyone." Thank God for kerosene.
Fortunately for me, doctors are gay. Most of them mistakenly believe that his passing can be attributed to natural causes, but as many specialists are quick to admit, in this day and age it has become increasingly difficult to differentiate between cause of death and cause of birth. One thing is for sure, however: Haiku Football may or may not have been born on a log.
To celebrate the death of this thoroughly living man, whom we will all miss like a mother misses her enigma and father his high-heeled feet, I have chosen to publish here some of his most acclaimed, accomplished work and some of his poems as well. The following poem has been included because it reminds me of a pirate. All the rest have been included because they wear eye patches, and maraud upon the high seas.
Poem for the blessed
Satan is my soup. . .and!
blood, they are my crackers
Feee-eed me now Satan
for I am the ASS OF HUMANITY
Upon which the vulture "feasts"
I am the HUMaN AsS ( dial 9 goddamn it!)
My heart blows away (like a not-so-miniature bag of Baba Ganush)
50 % like a clown suit in a city of silhouettes. . .my heart
33.333% (non-repeating decimal) like a tube of sweat glands thrust upon nature's graduating class. . .my heart
And you, my dear, do somewhat slightly resemble a baby when you laugh. . .
(well, not a baby so much as, well, picture a baby with a particularly messy case of infant death syndrome, and then picture that same baby falling through a barrel of knives, and well, you've got something that doesn't so much resemble you when you laugh as what you might look like in the moment you laughed were you not laughing in that moment)
Oh! Ooh! Yeah! That's it!
FUCK THIS WRISTWATCH!
AAH! FUCK IT!
You, them, me, the AFRICAN FLOWER of my heart plays hooky in your District of Columbia school system's locker rooms
"and you my dear are the musty gym shorts fate left behind for me to ejaculate into"- Marcus Aurelius
Least but not last I have chosen to include my very favorite of Football's work, a haiku of such subtle brilliance as to bring tears to my eyes and kidney stones to my bladder every time I read it, or more often than not, when my mother reads it to me after a long and industrious night of bed-wetting. Written just shortly after his tragic, me-induced death, this work takes on a particular poignancy when one considers its source: a rectangular black box buried six feet under the ground, which for his own private, and possibly self-deprecatory reasons, Football chooses to call his "final resting place".
To Mr. Danza, with love
This is a haiku
My name is Haiku Football
Fuck my wristwatch, bitch!
AAH! Goddamn it bitch! Get off my leg, you stupid slut!
