4:15 PM 1/30/14

The afternoon shadows fall

eerily this time of day

i muttered something to myself

something dark and un-precocious.

What then would there be

to write about

i am not particularly gifted with the art

of making others laugh

nor much of an imagination

i laughed to myself.

No one told me I didn’t have to live

such a tragedy, although I’ve been told

once or twice that i’ve a writers’ wit

so what’s the fucking difference?

i could have been working

on my process this whole time

instead of searching for the saddest word

to end a poem.


-Jesse Haydn



Monday, January 27, 2014
12:27 p.m


adjective: acephalous


no longer having a head

“an acephalous corpse or skeleton”

to want something

you cannot have

to have someone

you cannot touch-



it goes unnoticed

by the halves yet

means life

to the have-nots


i want so little.

spirals down, down

the drain as

easy as a snowball effect-


i am not androgynous.

A hundred and fifty years or

or a few lifetimes ago I cracked

my brain open-


(it was a prison)

to spill a thought or two.

-Jesse Haydn




A great haiku speaks

volumes; is comprehensive-

mourns not words (un) said


A bad one cheats, us-

es line breaks, wastes syllables

that could/not say more


Great ones need no Part-

2,  no title; yet deserve

names, as offspring do


Bad ones repeat them-

selves yet say nothing: wasted



Even Part 2 says

nothing. Spare syllables used

for title; after


-Jesse Haydn


How could you leave me all alone that day and for

forever, or at least, ever since I can remember

all I wanted was to die;

can you blame me? I cannot

tolerate myself another day.  Not anymore. Not for anyone.

Not for anyone. Even you.

I am so tired.


I am so sick and I miss you.

I miss your smile, your laugh, your happiness.  I remember-

I thought, we are killing each other-  when

I walk into the room; it pains you-

My existence.


You know this.

How could you leave me? Alone and with my own de-

vices? I can’t even sleep when you’re gone

away on a business trip, I am also weary

from working so hard

…deconstructing myself.


A pile of pieces;

insentient mess,

on the living

room floor.  I am unrecognizable. Only parts; worth-

less than the sum of the whole

plate in the dustpan that you had to clean up

that I dropped while you were gone. Or else,

after all these years-

just finally crumbled, mostly misused

and unnoticeably, chipped away

…bit by bit by bit by bit by bit…

till obsoletion.


If there really is a “heavenly” Father or some

“One” who gives a shit; why the fuck should we

be designed as mortals, so ill-prepared to coexist

with demons? While we, resembling nothing of his

omnipotence, are drafted for a war that

HE HIMSELF could never win?


Speaking of hypothetical logic, here-

which of these should be the only sin you can’t forgive?

The sins of the Father which created this

living hell, transformed from home to hate?

My chosen fate in which I must endure existence?

Or that I tried to escape it?


-Jesse Haydn

My comment is awaiting moderation:

The entropic law dictates that everything must eventually fall to decay; the proverbial wheel of life is terrifying and beautiful, necessary and natural. Every forest- green and lush with life grows and thrives from the forest floor made of millions of years worth of layer upon layer of the decayed flesh and bones of those forests that lived and died before them. I cannot agree more that we would all benefit from realizing the beauty surrounding us in literally every thing. The fact is, the laws of nature are immutable, destructive, and sometimes tragic. But since the wheel cannot be stopped, we should try to find the beauty in ALL things- regardless of what phase of the cycle of its own existence we happen to stumble upon it. An abandoned house, and, well, everything else, just so happens to coincide with our OWN blip of existence and location in spacetime by complete randomness. The only shame may be that our timing is just slightly off, but that is also simply a matter of perspective. Why should the decayed abandoned house right in front of us be any less “good” than yours or mine or anyone else’s? and who can say for sure how many wonderful memories an empty home can hold? The structures we build today or 1000 years ago will be here, still, long after we have ourselves decayed.


Also, as a side note…not to get all “political”, but I personally think another one of the many biggest problems in our country, is that we all tend towards such a narrow sighted view of what is “good” and what is “not”. Even I would prefer to move to a bigger and better house or car or career sometimes, and there’s no shame in that. The real shame is that even in my own hometown of Baltimore, MD there are approx. 16,000 vacant homes currently, while around 3,000 human beings are suffering homelessness on any given day. About this time last year; I was one of those suffering fellow human beings. Everyone and everything has their own backstory. We should try to keep that in mind always.


I would have been so incredibly grateful to have been able to keep shelter in any one of these beautiful homes.


I feel like everyone is complaining about the state of our country and world, yet so few people take the time or effort to do a damned thing about the very same problems we have created for ourselves. The least we can do (sometimes, all we can do) is try to flip the script and find the silver lining of every storm we all will weather while we are here…and take some pretty pics along our way.

-Jesse Haydn

Famous Last Words

While dying of lethologica
My last words would be
“My vocabulary did this to me.”
I believed in poetry
as a form of magic, most potent
when spoken aloud.”
But as usual, for the life of me-
I failed
to find the words to speak.
-Jesse Haydn

“While dying of alcoholism
his last words were
 “My vocabulary did this to me.” 
Spicer believed in poetry
as a form of magic, most potent
when spoken aloud.”
-Post Modern American Poetry
A Norton Anthology
Edited by Paul Hoover




n. weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had—the same boring flaws and anxieties you’ve been gnawing on for years, which leaves them soggy and tasteless and inert, with nothing interesting left to think about, nothing left to do but spit them out and wander off to the backyard, ready to dig up some fresher pain you might have buried long ago.
-The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows



again, a different day; a different face

to write and fret about the same


while waiting for whoever

wasn’t when I woke up

for god-knows-how-long

ago you left

me there;



as the humid August Maryland 4am air







-Jesse Haydn



The Lake (Edgar Allan Poe)


In spring of youth it was my lot

To haunt of the wide world a spot

The which I could not love the less–

So lovely was the loneliness

Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,

And the tall pines that towered around. But when the Night had thrown her pall

Upon that spot, as upon all,

And the mystic wind went by

Murmuring in melody–

Then–ah then I would awake

To the terror of the lone lake. Yet that terror was not fright,

But a tremulous delight–

A feeling not the jewelled mine

Could teach or bribe me to define–

Nor Love–although the Love were thine. Death was in that poisonous wave,

And in its gulf a fitting grave

For him who thence could solace bring

To his lone imagining–

Whose solitary soul could make

An Eden of that dim lake.


-Edgar Allan Poe