You see yourself change.
You feel yourself get hungry.
You hear yourself howl.
You tear through your house
and watch yourself going wild
out into the night.
You become primal
and all night you act so bad
and it feels so good.
The beast inside you
that you always thought was there
has come out to play.
You run from your yard
as a beast into the night,
looking for some fun.
You want to find food,
you want to tear things apart,
and you want your Rose.
Howling at the moon
never makes much sense to you,
but it feels so good.
Now, for some reason,
all you want to do is kill
your next-door neighbors.
The first thing you eat
is a cute little rabbit
who lived in your yard.
The next thing you eat
is a cute little old man
who lived down the street.
You kill a pet cat
and go straight to Rose’s house
to give her a gift.
Nothing shows true love
like a pile of dead house cats
left on her front porch.
Everything’s a blur
mixed with dirt, hair, pain and blood
until the sunrise.
The next thing you know,
you’re normal, naked, outside,
and your stomach’s full.
When you transform back,
it’s not nearly as painful…
you just shrink and shed.
Your nose, ears, eyes, teeth,
pinky fingers, nails and gut
all grow back in place.
You must then decide:
Do you first wash off the blood
or cover your junk?
Your next dilemma
is how to make it back home
without being seen.
Once inside your house,
you find your love mix CD
smashed into pieces.
And now here you sit,
with a neighbor-filled stomach,
writing poetry.
…I didn’t make it.
Writing those last few haiku
made some puke come up.
My dog is missing,
but he must have found those bones
and brought them inside.
I’ve got that all wrong.
Those bones were inside my dog.
I remember now.
When one loves one’s pet -
typically, eating that pet
is not considered.
If one can get past
all the desperate barking,
raw dog tastes awesome.
His meaty dog thighs
were like eating chicken legs
but with bloody hair.
I’ll miss my Lupé,
but with this indigestion,
I might see him soon.
A terrible stench
is seeping out from my pants.
I think it’s Shih Tzu.
I should call in sick
and do some work on my house
and on my colon.
Don’t worry, my friend.
I will write you again soon,
dear haiku journal.
Dear haiku journal,
Are there three full moons a month
or is there just one?
Do werewolves transform
more than just one night a month?
I’ll find out tonight.
Not taking chances.
I should drive way out of town
to not hurt people.
Out in the country -
late afternoon, in my car -
wearing a sweatsuit.
Praying clothes don’t rip.
Praying not to kill again.
Praying I don’t change.
Prayer didn’t work
and neither did the sweat suit.
Now, where did I park?
Naked once again.
Therefore, no keys once again.
Hope the car’s unlocked.
A distant farm house
with four parked ambulances
brings back memories.
All those EMTs
won’t be needing those stretchers.
Maybe some baggies.
I find my car locked,
but that’s not a big problem
since the windshield’s gone.
Naked on the hood,
I climb through the broken glass
and find my car keys.
As I drive back home,
I’m glad I have sunglasses
to help block the wind.
A few cars pass me
as I try to look normal,
windowless and nude.
Why is murder wrong?
The more I think about it,
the better it sounds.
That soul inside you -
it’s what is inside that counts.
I want your outside.
Souls are eternal
and don’t need bodies to live,
so why the upkeep?
Souls go to heaven.
Bodies are just part-time homes.
Let me help you pack.
If heaven sounds nice,
I’m doing you a favor.
Have fun. I’m eating.
With all this killing,
it helps to justify it
for guilt-free dining.
Please do not judge me.
It’s not my fault I’m this way,
dear haiku journal.
Dear haiku journal,
A third full moon is coming.
I need to prepare.
I wait in my house
and sit on my couch naked,
so I don’t rip clothes.
The werewolf in me
can’t care less about our stuff.
I keep losing doors.
I take down the screens
and prop a few doors open
to better my odds.
The morning after
a night of eating people
can be a bit rough.
You feel hungover
after a werewolf evening,
but with more remorse.
That guy I ate last,
I need to get out of me
and in a toilet.
When people eat corn
and spot them in their feces -
teeth are that way, too.
The full moon peeks out
above the horizon line.
Here we go again!
Is it terrible
that I am so excited,
dear haiku journal?
Dear haiku journal,
Sorry I haven’t written.
It’s been a few months.
That werewolf problem
where three days a month I kill…
it’s still going strong.
For the past eight weeks,
I have delivered the mail
like my life is fine.
Though mostly normal,
I have werewolf tendencies
that last through the month.
My new unibrow
is not as embarrassing
as my new tongue hair.
My curved fingernails
are perfect for back scratching
but bad for wiping.
All of my senses
seem about five times stronger -
which has pros and cons.
I can hear better,
even though both my ear holes
are clogged with whiskers.
Spiders have eight legs,
each of which I hear stomping
on my hardwood floors.
With heightened hearing,
current pop songs hurt my ears
more than they used to.
Nothing is blurry.
I no longer need glasses
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