Contributor: "Wired Clues" Abe

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Damn, he did it again;
he hit the delete button,
and all his files were gone.

My laptop screen can't
keep out all of those damn bugs
trying to get through.

My computer purrs
with activity amok—
cicadas' voices.

The music I make
is a quiet tip-tapping.
I play the keyboard.

I need a new mouse.
Mine's by the same company
as my computer.

My programming stinks,
because I have spilled Java
all over the place.

They're cutting down trees
in order to make books @
Amazon-dot-com.

I'm being turned on
by somebody's warm fingers:
control-alt-delete.

You are not my type.
When I hit the print icon
I get an error.

He sat high upon
the chair before the counter,
as the rocket launched.

The radiant moon
is slowly going away
from the earth's orbit.

Plate techtonics crash
below; above one can see
snowy Mount Fuji.

Blue plums, purple grapes,
and red raspberries gleam on
the computer screen.

My smart phone still shows
the weather in Kaua'i,
and I understand.

While I move my mouse,
the cat rubs its fur head on
my laptop's top. STOP!

On the bed at last
after hours of working,
doing sudoku.

I drink from the stars.
The arc of the Big Dipper
curves above tree tops.


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"WIRED CLUES" ABE is a poet of Japanese haiku in a postShiki world. His kigo, or season word, is a word or phrase associated with the particular season Postmodernism. He is friends with Chinese leaning Li "Web Crease" Du and American webster Esca Webuilder.