The Stars and the Cookie Jar

So, I'm sitting here next to the clutter of -- wait, did I take my debit card out of my work pants? I did -- the clutter of wallet, jewelry-box, ghost-eater arcana, and other things, such as my certificate of birth (complete with my Deep and Inscrutable, Singular Name) and checkbook, which I do not wish to put into a box and ship off into the night.

( Cut for the contents of my treasure-box, which are nonetheless indicative enough of the Zen of Me to warrant a journal entry and sentiment. )

Not midnight here yet,
but might as well get my verse
compulsions on screen.

here's one from the cat,
who thinks in haiku all day
(Bast has time for that):

"My hair's black. Also
white. No matter where I lie
I leave mementos."

And from the Siren,
since work needs verse to be borne:
DIE, CUSTIES, DIE, DIE!

"...I mean...I'm happy
to remake that latte, sir.
Thanks! Have a great day!"

Fearless Leader owes
me serious beer. Murphy's.
None of that Guinness.

Whoops, work got three. Not
like it eats my goddamn life,
Or anything. Er.

I write, sometimes, when
life is quiet. Stories that
have women, mostly.

Not so much haiku.
This is because copperbadge

said "Look! Blog haiku!"