Fried Haiku & a Scrambled Brain

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 . for thought

Prose & haiku © MMXIX Joe Blend. All rights reserved.