Daddy Haiku

Not even slightly do I resent my babies, but it becomes frustrating for a parent, and a struggle finding time for Self. That’s what this poem was about, the “Parent Haiku”, not that I was frustrated at the moment, just for a second I had a couple seconds, really only one it felt like, to self in the drive-through line at the Hopper sbux. Home with Mocha, no one’s sleeping Alice told me, but no crying Emma, no pugilistic Jack. There’s a midday Equilibrium. At least for the moment. Can hear little Kerouac up there sneaking around, singing and playing with his toys.. I think he’s trying to spy on me here in the office from the stairs’ top.
Been thinking a lot lately of life quality, and what precisely I want from my life.. one thing, certainly, SIMPLICITY. Thought at the gas station filling the Passat of how I put everything into this blog, and I mean everything.. cutting back on everything from the teaching blog to other blog cites, social media accounts, to actual notebooks.. everything in the bottle— And it was called “Daddy Haiku”, sorry.. the Ox is losing his creative, parental, “normal” everyday mind.
And Jackie’s up. Tranquility torn. I sip this 4 shot mocha like it’s holy water, like this is a church more than a writing studio and it’s going to bless me somehow or whatever. Mike is risen, or not so much. What do readers want, I then think? What do they want from me? Maybe I should be a reader of my work like I’m a student of my class— and speaking of, what are we doing tomorrow in addition to the rough draft sesh? Sip that mocha, Mikey… 1, I want them, I want as a student, to enjoy some freedom, find some remedies at this part of the semester. They’re needed. 2, some reading. Then maybe the drafting session. ‘Arguments’ is what we’re supposed to be covering, but maybe we will and maybe we— we won’t. Tomorrow I want the professor to do more than just welcome us back. I want it to be a continuation of break— ah ha! That’s an idea!
Listening to Jackie debate with Alice about something and Emma make her sounds. Alice taking control while Daddy writes, thinks in poetic revolutions and counterclockwise movements, reciting to myself and wondering what I like about Mike Madigan’s writing— well, one, how tireless and obsessive it is. This will ground my life quality, my measurement of my days’ eminence. Symbol of the workbench in the garage, the actual workbench where I’m now stacking books and having that be what other men would call their asinine goddamn ‘man cave’. No.. that workbench is from where I build my Literary Life, my individuality’s grade and creative nature.
Now I sit on the couch in front of little Emma as she sneezes and makes sounds trying to recite to me, probably thinking, “I can write, too. Wait till I speak and start picking up pens, typing.” Good for her, I think. She says something else, I look at her she could be tired but who knows, I know typical parenting thoughts. In the Passat’s cabin I remembered one day while living in San Ramon, at night on my deck, looking at that water spout, or mock-geyser or whatever, and recognized how quiet it was. I also remember concentrating on how I needed to right there appreciate and forever remember that peace, that warm San Ramon night atop Crow Canyon Road. I’m far from there now. Now, the writer only has time for haikus while waiting for the young girl to hand him a cup, or these 100-500 word pieces. Lucky if I top a thousand words in a day, now.