I’ve been writing these late at night; and frankly, I don’t know whether they’re bad or good. I’m writing crime haiku while half asleep, that’s all I know.   The subconscious is in charge.

These are again based on police blotter stories out of Grass Valley, a town that could be accused of anything  except restraint.

“They say I’m missing,
but I’m NOT missing, I’m here!
And I’m fine, really!!”

The proposition:
She’d burn down his trailer, or
he’d give her a smoke.
 
His tenant slugged him,
but he won’t file charges because
eviction is sweet.
 
He calls 911
and admits to random crimes
for the love of jail.
 
A note from her son
gave precise instructions for
finding his remains.
 
She stood in the road
and screamed at cars to hit her.
But none of them would.

He lay in the road,
and his wife couldn’t resist
running over him.

He was supposed to
buy food with her debit card.
Food, he didn’t buy.

Two naked people
making out in a hot tub
broke no laws at all.

A pistol in hand,
he sighted on his mother
and then walked away.