Here are yet more police blotter haiku, 17-syllable tales of human frailty and madness from America’s newspapers.

Just for your information: every haiku I’ve written lately came from the same newspaper.  It publishes a daily blotter of vast size, and every so often I pop a few bucks for a day pass through the pay wall and download several months worth of police blotter: thousands and thousands of individual items in one mighty file.  Then I pick through it for worthy items.  I’m only a third of the way through the last download, and it’s been two months!

So my question to you is: would you want to live in those parts?  And, how do you know that you don’t?

Enjoy.

Chased off, he returned:
to piss on the front door of
the house he’d burgled.

A small orange car
that resembles a toaster
blockades his driveway.

Someone sends webcasts
through the cameras in his eyes.
It’s been six months now.

Drunk, and convinced that
her husband and her brother
have a “thing” going.

A tree crossed the road
and fell to the other side
Then a car hit it.

An unknown driver.
A long row of mailboxes.
A twitch of the wheel.

The next apartment
keeps a deer carcass for their
flesh-eating beetles.

The drunken caller
is sure that when her cat dies,
she’ll die with it.

Don’t give your car keys
to the cute hitch-hiker who
you went drinking with.

She said he hit her.
And he said that she knocked him
down two flights of stairs.

The hours pass and yet
still he stands before their house
in the evening rain.

(thud)(hop)(thud)(hop)(thud)
Her upstairs neighbors cannot
stand flat on the floor.

Santa, with an axe.
Banging it on a stop sign.
Friday night in Hell.

Wonders await her
in the the neighbors’ mailboxes.
She combs them daily.

Shoeless wanderer.
She speaks of the dead people
who ride her shoulders.

His pit bulls got loose
and attacked her cows and then
someone heard shotguns.

The banquet room was
filled with people who hadn’t
come in the front door.