Line— seventeen syllable, five-seven-five formula, standardized by Basho, Li Po, and other Buddhist dudes. Among the more interesting places I managed to churn out reams o’ satori, are the Met in New York, a Greyhound bus to D.C., and in a Baltimore parking lot. I wound up calling the manuscript American Lunch Haikus, as a sort of homage to Frank O'Hara and his Lunch Poems. I wanted to emphasize the ordinariness of the poems, and the fact that many of them were written on the job. In fact, for that month, I actually found myself enjoying work; having an outlet to vent the frustration of ennui. Lost in my little Basho world, I figured it would go on forever— that I could create a collection of eternal haiku, that would set the literary world on fire. It never ceases to amaze me how, in the grips of creative frenzy, we lose our grip on reality, and imagine all sorts of bizarre things about ourselves and our work. I've actually made a mental note not to let this happen anymore, but it happens regardless. Choosing which haikus to present is also a problem, especially with a fifty page manuscript. In this case, I decided to pick haikus basically at random, and try my luck. This glosses with the principles of non-rigidity and non-attachment that the I-Ching teaches, though it doesn't specifically delve into the principles of haiku selection. Because I've never read these before, I don't know if they'll coalesce into a coherent whole, or if, strung together, they'll just sound diffuse. I figure the risk is worth taking, and even if I fall flat on my ass, I'll have done justice to my "messianic Self," for whatever that's worth. Can you write a Sutra in seventeen syllables? It can’t hurt to try.
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