A Haiku

by Wesley Turner


I spent ten minutes
Writing these three lines for you.
I hope you like them.

On Concussions

My roommate got five stars stitched into his head.

And a Concussion.

He didn't remember any of it. Or any of the day before. Or the day before.

This morning he woke up and found a note that informed him of his situation. It also told him to take some pills for nausea if he had any. By then, he remembered the day before, and the day before the day before. But he didn’t remember the accident or the hospital. 

What if while he was in the emergency room there was a little girl in the chair next to him, and he told her not to be scared and they had a really great conversation? He doesn't remember it if he did. He doesn't remember a whole person. 

Maybe.


What if you got hit harder? Seven stars hard. What if you forgot who you were and no one left any notes? What if you had to relearn everything about yourself?

Would it be like, you had to find out that person you were so you could be yourself again?

Or would it be compare and contrast? You know. Who you were and who you want to be.

Japan

Sometimes I think about Japan.

And when I do it's like a film I
need to get around to seeing.

Even though tickets are fifteen
hundred dollars instead of eight
fifty.

And there are no subtitles or
rental stores that will have it
in three months because the
Projectionist inserted the reel
three thousand years ago
and doesn't care that I’m missing it.

So sometimes I go to the internet

and look up pictures of Japan.
walk under scarlet pagodas
feel the warmth of secluded onsen
converse with statues of mysterious pasts and
for a moment stop worrying so much about
movies and subtitles.

Following Your Dreams (And other Terrible Ideas)

A cautionary tale:

This semester has been kicking my trash so far. If I'm not at work I'm at school, if I'm not at school I'm in the library, if I'm not at the library I'm stuffing my face with a handfull of Frosted Flakes and putting pants on simultaneously.

And I'm trying to like English. 

Like in Highschool, when I would drink in the pages and feel the words dripping between my ribs. When the ink would stain my bones black and white. When wet flakes of paper could be found between my teeth.

Now things are different:
Read. Deconstruct. Interpret. Next.
Read. Deconstruct. Interpret. Next.

I think I have a dangerous disease. I think the reason I'm not enjoying reading as much as I used to is because I'm not writing myself.

And now suddenly I think I'm going to have to write and write till my wrists break and my eyes turn cold and gray. I think I'm going to have to pay for an education in writing. I think I'm going to make a terrible decision and start listing "Writer" under my intended life plan, with my intended major being "Starvation".

I don't think this is a good idea, I don't advocate it, and I don't think it will turn out well for me. But I don't think I can bear not to write. When I swallow the words and push them into the darkest depths of my stomach I feel them burning ulcers, escaping into my blood, crawling beneath my skin.

My point is, I'm going to start vomiting my excess words here as often as I can. Anecdotes, imagery, even perhaps an occasional poem (gross). I'm hoping you get something out of it. And, if you don't, that I'll realize it soon enough to switch to Business or Accounting.

You know, something practical.