Fried Haiku and a Scrambled Brain | 2-oz. Read | Blog

Jack Kerouac once said, “an art dies when it describes itself instead of life.”

It’s a paradox of sorts, like the chicken and the egg, but it makes me wonder whether a writer writes a poem or the lines create the poet? Does ink convey an idea or do readers place meaning on the words? If a typewriter reveals a story but no one is there to read it, do the words still exist?

Life is full of mysteries: never stop discovering.

a haiku about
haiku is like a chicken
and egg…food for thought

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This entry was posted in: Haiku


I observe life through steaming coffee and an energized imagination. When that's coupled with my rich background in writing, visual communication, and concept development, I become a barista of words and art. A craftsman of communication. Someone who combines creative thought with meaningful substance in order to provide a rich reading experience that caffeinates the brain space.