Werewolf HAIKU Page 2

  to find my glasses.

  With heightened eyesight,

  Iwatch microscopic bugs

  on my eyelashes.

  My new swinging stride

  speeds mail delivery time -

  with my wider steps.

  I must remember,

  when I’m about to shape shift:

  Wear clothes I don’t want.

  I now notice scents

  seeping from old couch cushions

  as I watch TV.

  My new sense of smell

  makes for a rough addition,

  with my messy house.

  Constant gag reflex,

  thanks to new strands of long hair

  growing in my mouth.

  I’ve gained new habits

  that make delivering mail

  more complicated.

  Strangers seem surprised

  when a distant car alarm

  causes me to howl.

  ***

  The strong urge to run

  and chase after loud fire trucks

  is hard to control.

  I constantly push

  my overgrowing chest hair

  back into my shirt.

  I walk down the streets

  like a pied piper for dogs

  who follow behind.

  Frequent fantasies

  involve Rose rubbing fingers

  behind my earlobes.

  How can werewolves die?

  “Silver bullets through the heart”

  seems most consistent.

  Should I really dodge

  only the silver bullets?

  I bet lead hurts, too.

  It is hard to check

  the type of metal bullet

  when it’s fired at you.

  “Lycan” or “Wolfman” -

  it comes down to preference.

  I prefer “Werewolf.”

  Take lycanthropy,

  subtract the long teeth and hair:

  Cannibalism.

  Science might call it

  clinical lycanthropy -

  with less delusion.

  Cannibalism

  is a fairly glaring con,

  but there are some pros.

  61 That thinning bald patch

  that had started to peek through

  no longer exists.

  My head still itches,

  weeks after I’m a werewolf,

  from leftover ticks.

  It’s hard to eat food

  when my head leans over plates

  and bugs jump for it.

  A werewolf headache -

  my scalp is a battlefield

  between ticks and lice.

  With so many bugs,

  I try not to scratch my scalp

  or my hands get wet.

  My lice look like salt

  and my ticks look like pepper

  falling in my lunch.

  I need a hairbrush

  with a much longer handle

  to get to my back.

  When I comb my head

  I usually end up

  combing my face, too.

  My hairbrush is gross,

  filled with knots of hair and twigs

  and maybe some veins.

  When I take showers,

  I tend to use as much Nair

  as I do shampoo.

  I shave my palms now,

  since work friends like to make jokes -

  which can turn awkward.

  The term “moonstrating”

  some might find a bit vulgar,

  but it is fitting.

  One cycle a month,

  my hormones get out of whack

  and blood is involved.

  I get real moody

  when it’s that time of the month.

  I cry more at songs.

  I’m the only guy

  who has monthly circled dates

  on his calendar.

  My new life is odd

  but it is so much more fun,

  dear haiku journal.

  Dear haiku journal,

  You’re not going to believe

  what the new me did!

  I could never do

  what I did this afternoon

  before that dog bite.

  Should I be nervous

  if the werewolf part of me

  gives me confidence?

  On Rose’s front porch,

  I stood and knocked on her door.

  Then Iasked her out.

  She said, “Yes!” to me,

  and we were both caught off guard

  when I said, “That’s right.”

  Maybe it’s just me,

  but when did Rose’s pants leg

  become seductive?

  ***

  ***

  We went out for steak.

  I ordered a rare sirloin.

  She got a salad.

  As fate would have it,

  she’s a vegetarian.

  I’m the opposite.

  Before I was bit,

  I had never kissed a girl -

  but that changed tonight.

  Right around the time

  she said she loved animals,

  I grabbed her and kissed.

  It could have gone worse,

  though most kissing fantasies

  have less fighting back.

  My tongue in her mouth

  probably reminded her

  of a piece of meat.

  She got a taxi

  and I drove home by myself,

  proud that I made out.

  My beautiful Rose:

  Know that wherever you run,

  I’ll be chasing you.

  Who I wish I was,

  the wolf helps me to become,

  dear haiku journal.

  Dear haiku journal,

  A whole bottle of mouthwash

  can’t kill my cat breath.

  Is it raspberry

  or blood stains under my nails?

  I’ll guess raspberry.

  Rabies prevention -

  once atopic I would mock,

  now one I Google.

  If you think tacos

  are hard for you to digest,

  try passing chipmunks.

  I wake up at night

  with an awkward new desire

  to go pee outside.

  In conversation,

  burping up a severed toe

  can make things awkward.

  When the moon is full

  in the middle of the day -

  those days suck for me.

  Werewolves leave claw marks

  on trees, cars, et cetera,

  because it feels good.

  Like a hand massage,

  clawing makes small vibrations

  that help calm me down.

  I can’t remember

  if wanting to lick people

  is something that’s new.

  Delivering mail

  seems like it would go faster

  running on all fours.

  My job is harder

  since now when I see rabbits,

  I have to chase them.

  Eating fat people

  is like digesting fast food.

  Good now; hurts later.

  People in good shape

  are like eating fruit smoothies -

  with chunks of raw meat.

  If you often say,

  “His bark is worse than his bite,”

  we have yet to meet.

  Think my waist will tear

  these XXXL sweatpants,

  dear haiku journal?

  Dear haiku journal,

  I have had a x#23! rough morning,

  so pardon these swears smears.

  You ever wake up

  and find one eye is missing?

  That was my morning.

  I learned the hard way,

  if you’re injured as a wolf,

  those injuries st
ay.

  Feeling immortal,

  I let some girl throw a punch,

  and now I’m one-eyed.

  My right left eye’s last view

  was her car keys in her hand

  as she punched my face.

  I would have stopped her,

  had I known that werewolf eyes

  would never grow back.

  I think I won though.

  She may have taken my eye,

  but I took her hip.

  While I can still see,

  she is no longer walking -

  or living, really.

  She went down fighting.

  In fact, currently, her hip

  is causing heartburn.

  My missing eyeball

  will be a bit hard to hide

  while bringing the mail.

  I’m staring for hours,

  with a flashlight and mirror,

  into my socket.

  Though not hygienic,

  touching inside my eye hole

  is hard to pass up.

  It’s hard to erase

  the urge to fill the socket

  with a play-doh ball.

  When I close my eye,

  is that considered blinking,

  or is it winking?

  My newest pet peeve

  is when my useless eyelid

  sticks inside the hole.

  Temporary fix:

  With a napkin and duct tape,

  I cover the hole.

  Glass eyeballs online

  take six weeks to deliver

  and cost a month’s pay.

  Only costume shops

  with large pirate selections

  sell eyeball patches.

  I bought an eye patch

  but had to cover over

  the anchor image.

  When people question,

  I blame LASIK surgery:

  “Never use coupons.”

  My depth perception

  makes you seem further away,

  dear haiku journal.

  Dear haiku journal:

  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 journal:

  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,