Dear haiku journaclass="underline"
Werewolf movies often lie.
Torn jeans don’t stay on.
Despite the movies,
I do not have the desire
to surf on van roofs.
Of all werewolf films,
Teen Wolf’s popularity
confuses me most.
After I transform,
the last thing I want to do
is play basketball.
Dear Michael J. Fox,
Hop in your time machine car,
and don’t make Teen Wolf.
When I get hungry,
my mind daydreams about meat
and girls in red hoods.
Children’s fairy tales
give harmful werewolf advice.
We don’t want baskets.
If you don’t notice
a werewolf dressed as grandma,
then come here, grandkid.
What big teeth I have.
All the better to tear through
digestive systems.
Why wouldn’t the wolf
, once the girl shares her schedule,
shrug and then eat her?
If you’re in my woods
wandering to grandma’s house,
you won’t make it there.
Me, the big bad wolf.
You, little red riding hood.
This will get messy.
Those three little pigs
would have been eaten too fast
for a fairy tale.
That ten-page story
should be a five-word sentence:
“A wolf eats three pigs.”
If you seek safety
in a house of branch or hay,
you’ve lived long enough.
You won’t let me in?
Well, little pig, little pig,
no more playing nice.
Hide in a brick house?
I would huff and puff at it,
then break a window.
It’s hard to eat pigs
when their chinny chin chin hair
gets stuck between teeth.
Once the pigs are gone
and the bones lose their flavor…
time for their owner.
I love eating pigs.
Farmers who love eating pigs -
I love eating more.
I think about girls
a lot more than I used to.
Hot girls eating meat.
Girls in red raincoats:
Be sure to keep those hoods down.
Quit leading me on.
When I picture girls
with dead chipmunks in their teeth,
my heart could explode.
You know that fifth toe
that you wonder if you need?
Turns out that you don’t.
If you lose a toe,
make sure it’s the little one.
Big ones are useful.
People can still run
if I just eat little toes.
Big toes, though… they’re mine.
Five o’clock shadow,
even if Is have at noon,
now shows up by two.
I need more razors
and I need new furniture,
dear haiku journal.
Dear haiku journaclass="underline"
Love makes us do crazy things,
which explains this limp.
Rose won’t answer calls,
open the door when I pound,
or keep the dead cats.
Against good judgment,
I visited Rose last night.
It did not go well.
Around 3am,
as if to say, “Come on in,”
her house lights were off.
Rose was sound asleep,
which was sweet for me to watch
through her back window.
I don’t use doorknobs.
Who knows if her door was locked?
It opened for me.
She didn’t answer
when I smashed apart her house,
yelling out her name.
I couldn’t find her.
Rose’s hospitality
needs a little work.
She was being rude,
as if she didn’t recall
I bought her salad.
I picked up her scent,
which led me to her closet
and this bullet wound.
Two bullets pass me -
and considering my size,
I am hard to miss.
Bullet number three
hit the wall like the others…
but went through me first.
Rose aimed at my chest,
both her hands holding a gun
that smoked as I fell.
I slid to the floor
as Rose lowered the weapon
that punched through my chest.
Nothing can hurt me
when I’m in my werewolf form.
Excluding bullets.
Rose jumped over me
as if I didn’t exist
as I moaned her name.
If you shoot a guest
and make a gaping chest wound,
offer an ice pack.
If silver bullets
can instantly kill werewolves,
those must have been lead.
Rose called 911,
which pushed me over the edge
and I let her know.
I slowly stood up,
and as I stared in her eyes,
I flexed and I howled.
An operator
spoke loudly through Rose’s phone:
“Having dog trouble?”
I clawed for the phone,
which is why she will have scars
for life on her face.
Rose shot me again,
which is why I have a limp
and only one knee.
I fell to the floor
as Rose screamed about werewolves
and ran out the door.
The smell of her blood
helped me to regain my strength.
But not my kneecap.
I hobbled back up
and limped out through the front door,
chasing after her.
Rose loved to play games,
but I’m the dog on her leash
who will not play dead.
Rose had a good lead
but I was still catching up -
until the cops came.
The police siren
was a song I had to join
and I howled again.
Rose pointed at me
and the police pulled their guns
as I ran away.
I woke up outside,
nude but normal, in a bush
in my own backyard.
My kneecap is gone.
In its place: a crusty scab
peppered with wolf hair.
The hole through my chest
has closed up and is healing,
but it hurts to cough.
If the bullet hit
any of my main organs,
I guess they heal, too.
I’m taking to bed
my broken chest, knee and heart,
dear haiku journal.
Dear haiku journal,
I now keep in my pocket
milk bone treats for me.
I knew something changed
when my recurring daydreams
included dog bones.
When dogs near my yard,
screaming, “My territory!”
is now a habit.
I now fight the urge
to shove my nose in crotches.
Socially awkward.
Dry dog food is gross,
but that fancy small can stuff
makes my mouth water.
Replacing tuna
with a tin of canned dog food
is great in salads.
When I walk past sticks,
I now find myself thinking,
“Sure love to chase that!”
My new stress relief
is throwing sticks in my yard
and then getting them.
When I hear dogs bark,
it’s odd that I comprehend
and sometimes agree.
Now I understand,
like everlasting pretzels,
why dogs chew on bones.
I need a breath mint.
A smell worse than garlic breath:
my pancreas breath.
Pet stores drive me mad
with all their open cages,
like a salad bar.
My heightened senses
help me know where people are.
I’m a good stalker.
Most frown on stalking,
but if it makes you happy…
I say stalk away.
If you like a girl,
follow her all around town
and try to smell her.
People who eat fast
and call it “wolfing down food,”
have no idea.
Raw hamburger meat
is my new favorite snack.
Great in cereal.
Coughing up hairballs
is more like vomiting hair.
Cats do it cuter.