The Rage Haiku: An oxymoron, or just moronic?
What, you may ask, is a rage haiku? It’s a wonderful thing which, yes, yes, I invented. It recently came to me in the shower (the crucible of all brilliant ideas) that the haiku, though long-reputed as a poetic form best suited to the subtle, rosy-hued observations of intellectual gurus, would in fact be the ideal form in which to express unalloyed, vitriolic anger. The kind of anger that would vindicate your long-repressed misanthropy, redeem you in your father’s eyes, and finally pay off all those pesky student loans. I mean, think about it: by definition, haikus are:
- Brief: just 5 syllables, then 7, then another 5; YOU’RE DONE!
- Vivid: sunsets, delicate petals, and dewdrops are all popular subjects.
- … according to intellectual guru Natalie Goldberg, textual gems that should contain a “hint of epiphany” in which something powerful and unexpected is revealed about the subject.
Wouldn’t it be amazing if you could channel your righteous anger about subway etiquette, orange juice, or criminal trial verdicts, into something with the thought-provoking, bone-crushing CH’I of a fucking haiku? Your enemies would fall like flabby mall walkers to your dragon-veined, 17-syllabled katana! Faster than a zinging comeback, more powerful than a made-up curse word, wittier even than the Drunk Hulk twitter steam, a hail of meticulously-crafted poetry would stun the most seasoned nemesis into a shocked stasis, allowing you to slip away unnoticed or exit to rapturous applause from the assembled crowd.
Allow me to demonstrate, via a series of common, everyday situations:
You buy a newspaper at the local bodega and the gentleman behind the counter hands you change for a five dollar bill when you clearly paid with a ten. You object. He insists. You skool him with a little 5/7/5:
Will mean a holocaust for
Your Chifles* display”
Your ex-husband’s birthday party. It’s been a while. He’s remarried; you’re not. You look hot, there’s no denying that. But there’s also no denying you’ve had four martinis. Your index finger is suddenly on his sternum.
“You know your problem?
You could never loosen up!
Yo Chex mix LET’S DANCE!!”
A tense situation in an abandoned building ends with the drawing of guns in a Mexican Standoff. Your tummy rumbles.
No one gets hurt if
You motherfuckin’ get me
A Royale with Cheese!!!
See? RAGE HAIKU. Try one. Keep a few in your pocket. And leave those anger management classes to the proletariat.