The first thing you have to know is that none of the poems in this book are actually haiku. Traditionally, haiku concern themselves with nature. This is a topic about which I know nothing, which is exactly how I like it.

Furthermore, all haiku include what's called a kigo, or a "season word," a subtle hint to the reader about when in the year the nature is happening. "Mosquito" would indicate the poem takes place in summer; "dogwood" would indicate spring; "Fashion Week" would indicate winter.

The poems in Gay Haiku stay as far away from nature as they possibly can, and none of them contain a kigo—or, if they do, it's completely by accident. So if these aren't haiku, what are they?

The answer is that they're senryu. I almost called the book Gay Senryu but then I realized that, with that title, exactly three people would buy it, one of whom is my father. The senryu is a traditional Japanese verse form structurally identical to the haiku, but with people instead of nature, thank God, and no kigo. With those elements removed, what you've got left is a three-line poem that usually has five syllables in the first line, seven in the second, and five in the last. Because of the way Japanese and English syllabification differ, many people suggest that 3-4-3 would translate the form into English better than 5-7-5, but I bow to the weight of tradition as set forth in such venerable tomes as Haikus for Jews, Honku, and The Sound of One Thigh Clapping.

The other important principle involved is the "cutting." In a Japanese haiku this is an actual word; in English, it's rendered more commonly as punctuation. The point is that the poem has to be in two parts: either the first line and then the next two, or the first two lines and then the last. This turns what could be a simple declarative statement into a reflection on cause and effect, a juxtaposition of dissimilarities, a musing on human fallibility.

Consider this poem, without a cutting:

The subway rides to
Sex hookups are simply too
Long to be worth it.

As opposed to this one (from page 47), with a cutting:

I'm considering
Giving up casual sex:
I hate the subway.

In the first poem, there's no mystery, no space, no time for expectations to build and then be dashed or fulfilled. In the second poem, the pause after the second line creates a tension that is then released in the third line — in essence, a joke and a punch line.

Furthermore, in the first poem, the speaker gives his opinion and leaves it at that, whereas in the second poem, not everything is stated, not every dot connected, so readers can do some of the work themselves. You have to take a split second to figure out what casual sex and the subroadway have to do with each other — and then, having made that connection yourself, you get to enjoy having participated in creating the poem.

Pretty serious stuff with which to invest seventeen syllables, I know. But if I'm lucky the material here and in the book will give you an idea or two, or at the very least something to do in between episodes of America's Next Top Model.