The scene spills out of a saxophone,

Blue and sensuous,

As an airplane bisects the crescent moon.

The earth breathes,

Heaving a collective sigh,

Causing the leaves to rustle.


What shall we talk about tonight, Bashō?

Haiku is best understood

During the Indian summer months.


It’s just past three a.m.

When I drunkenly stumble through

The university commons.

On Fraternity Row,

The lighted windows present a myriad of tableau

As studious scholars bend over their work,

Liquid Moloch coursing through their veins.


Fog creeps down from the hills,

Filling my mind with the densest of hazes,

Obscuring my fondest memories and desires.


And I start to question if any of it’s real.

My friends, experiences,

I’ve lost all sense of time.

Even as these words appear, the days, weeks, months, and years

Vanish without a trace,

Teetering on the edge of the supermassive black hole

That is the Mojave Desert

(For all its savage beauty.)

© Chester Sakamoto