The weather outside is frightful and we left the Paris agreement.

I like the X in Xmas. It’s any mas you want. Just solve for X.

We must put the Chris back in Christmas and the Christ back in Christopher.

What child is this, who, laid to rest—seriously, whose kid is in here?

Though Haiku can’t say for sure, you know Donner and Blitzen are fucking.

Did no one wonder if Rudolph’s nose might require medical treatment?

Haiku needs the five syllables in the final line because fuck twelve.

I am poem, not scholar of law, but this is fucking sedition.

Haiku found itself agreeing with Lindsay Graham last night. What a world.

I had a dream, too, but mine was just that all clouds were dogs called sky dogs.

Last haiku without female Vice President of the United States.

Don’t hate haiku for being just as jazzed about Gaga as Harris.

Today was a day not for haiku but for a big, free, wild poem.

I look back on my old self, respect my old self, glad as fuck I’ve changed.

Think of mask as soft hammock nose can rest in. Or just fucking wear it.

Haiku has become loose with swearing. There’s so much to swear about. Fuck.

Poetry is when you find a new way to not understand the world.

If you are counting syllables, you are missing the point.