My Mother’s Wedding (I Have No Memory of This)

So, I was thinking today about some-

thing I’ve never thought about in this

particular way or even questioned

before, about what exactly would have

possessed me at age 3 or 4 to take

a blind dive off of the comfort of

my Grandma’s lap and run

to her, to clutch her, and beg her, and scream

and my Mother and Grandmother know

this is nothing like me to be such a

disruption and make such a scene

(I’m such a good, quiet girl)

I cried

No Mommy! No! Don’t do it! 

I must have been terribly scared

of my new Devil Daddy, Father of Nightmares.

Have we met before? I suppose

it was worth a shot, (I must have known it was you)

for the first and last time

I told my mother no, a failed attempt

to keep you from saying those two words-

“I do.”


You believe me now-

Don’t you?


-Jesse Haydn


via Daily Prompt: Disrupt


In view of the dry dead tree book

now cut at the stems

a large number of entries

fell in pieces before long.

The world will be held to slip.

I did not.

Injured, exposed wood taken

from my department, accidents

fanning and snapping the pieces

all along the countryside.

I will never again be whole.

The tea leaves raise wages and damages

dried for a shaft on this occasion

from the branch of the leaf, by a very slight breeze

and I fell before landing in peace.


-Jesse Haydn

Your Eucatastrophe

One of us goes on to dream

of escaping from something, you’re in front

I’m not good enough

and I can not help you with your love

when you go.

I got up on the bed and called you

into the next room:

I am not a dream

I cannot handle the load.


I’m tired and it feels like

there’s horse hair in my hands.

But sometimes- I sometimes know

an ungodly gust blows and brings

anyone- God knows:

The body falls onto the leaves.

My eyes before the storm.


-Jesse Haydn



Always remembering

the last class. How?

How can I write

a Red Maple? A Laurel? The blanket

of winter, the snow and the white

and the gray, the despair of those

who tremble in December?



Apart, I wonder

and I think that we all desire

to take the favorite

color of all the impermanents-

to decide exactly 

where to store

this empty chair.



The whole of time.

When was the last class? And how-

how was I supposed to know

I was giving you your last

haircut? I would have taken it-

all your time. How do I write

a Red Maple? A Laurel? You?

Of all people, falling down

the stairs or slipping on a blanket

we all desired to take.

Beauty lives. Beauty dies.

Colors fade.




my last class, no one

remembers. How can I

record the Red Maple, down? It

just fell again this year-

the blanket.

And I wonder why? And I wonder

why I pray to no one

in particular for the color

to return in Spring.

Empty Spring.


-Jesse Haydn


“How lonely it is to live.
What am I waiting for by living,
in the morning especially,
as I awaken to the silence
of the trees?…”


Christian Science

Thursday, December 26, 2013

“…but these compositions were crude,
the first steps of a child in the
newly discovered world of Spirit.”


I know not the depth of

this madness but I can

with certainty, fall down a hole

better than anyone

I know.

What new beings

 new powers

new fears will be conjured now? Now that I

am terrified of my own mind

there’s a mirror on the wall-

I cannot sleep to save my life.


This brain has finally connected it all.

I live nightmares.

I live in dreams.

I live inside of both

our fears

in reveries

above my head and all around

they hover-

follow me.

What the fuck did you expect; so soon?

A mother fucking sign of life?

Some living cadaver? Corpus exquisite?

Not nearly ripe enough

to be a poet;

but, rigor mortis- soon enough

a fine corpse indeed.


-Jesse Haydn


She also began to jot her thoughts on the main subject; but these jottings were only infantile lispings of Truth. A child drinks in the outward world through the eyes, and rejoices in the draught. He is as sure of the world’s existence as of his own; yet he cannot describe it. He finds a few words, and with these he stammeringly attempts the conveyance of his feeling. Later the tongue voices the more definite thought, though still imperfectly.
So it was with the author. As a certain poet says of himself,
she “lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.”
-Mary Baker Eddy


My Mom Told Me To Go For A Walk, and This Is What I Thought About

I am beside myself

alone sitting on a splintered

bench with no back

when I realize

I hate the person sitting next to me.

In the cold gray of late February afternoons, I inhaled

a breath from that night last

summer and recalled the fortune

cookie I came back for, to this very spot.

I thought I didn’t deserve such a truth and

no one does and I

came home back home to a skunk in my room.

I was beside myself then.

And I hated her too.


-Jesse Haydn


20180419_074924-1 (1)

The Answer to the Riddle My Dear, Is No

April 2015

Of life to own-
From life to draw-
But never touch the reservoir.


Burnt leaves with clear points of cancer

there is no hope, exiled here in the thirstland unrestricted:

here they deny without limitations. Why do you ask,

unable to do anything? I am not capable anymore in the light-

of the restructuring.


While advancing toward the leg

of the great

I hung my head-

hung in an underground fire

in my house.


No one needs what my hands can offer:

Fruit flowers. Buds and death.

No one knows what I am capable of:

The potential of losing,

unnecessary surprise in the vibrant sky

so alive at midnight-

swimming pools of fire-stars


remind me of mysterious water.


Once, I danced with the vortex of life

now I bend and break under a floral weight.


the bar of despair will snap

above the beauty of the wave.


A pond dissolved

in shrapnel, in silt, in entropy.

Somewhere a tree lies in an empty forest-

a hushed, hidden soul

inaudible ghost

resonant echo of suffering.


-Jesse Haydn



Somedays I’m a-okay, breezy

ripples in a pond, a human being

in the line at Starbucks ordering

a latte and I’m bored. Somedays

I want so badly to be like them.

Somedays I don’t.

Sometimes I just want to go back

to float up and away into

another Kundalini psychosis from this

place in line in which I am

stable standing still.

I want to feel the ascension

and understand deeply what

things mean-

to be able to see through this

hologram, to answer the question

before it’s asked: Fibonacci

Fibonacci, Fibonacci. I want a sunflower

to stop me dead in my tracks and hang

upside down in the trees

and embrace it- the pain

when I fall up and learn

from the birds and try again.

Trains because I love you.

I love you, I love you, Oh-

and to hear all of the trains, to

triangulate in a million different

ways, to use the sonar in my

brain to hear the (((future))) or

whose on the other end or

right inside your head

what you won’t say but-

I can not.

They’ll find me.

They’ll know. They’ll bug the whole house…

the phones, and make me want to run

away from home. See what I mean? When

I say that I love you more than you

could ever comprehend? Olanzapine and

Oxcarbazepine and Kryptonite

because I love you- I stay,

I’ll stay, so we’ll stay

happily ever ended.


-Jesse Haydn