Saturday, November 28, 2009

November 29, 2009

Today is and isn't, depending on the season you carry in your pocket, the meaning of haiku and tanka on a buffet tablet eyed by lonely fat men and celibate priests making love to platefuls of food, one after the other, like balloons about to burst, giving meaning to Paul McCartney's, All The Lonely People, diners whispering about the size of their stomachs, and Thanksgiving, another religious holiday, sans God,when people can disobey the commandment in the Bible, "Thou shall not be a glutton," and feel good about it, as if they truly give a damn. "A nigger became president!" "Fucking woman driver!" "Shit, look at that motherfucker run with the pigskin!" "Hey waiter, another kegger of Bud for my buddies!"

North America, just one of many sections of the Wonderland Amusement Park, Democrats and Republicans backstabbing one another like water on a duck's back, only the ducks are eaten in Chinese restaurants, and the few that remain are made of ink and appear in cartoons on cable television.

I squeeze

the sun today, in

lieu of you

incoming tide . . .

lolo hooks a world

spun with

captions above

empty boxes

a million

stars, and a spotted


to be

loved by someone

who sees me

in shadows unwatered

by dollar signs

spotting . . .

sometimes christmas

comes early

think of me

as a child blowing

bubbles . . .

into a sky darkened

with fish scales

a child, she

stares at her photo . . .


convince me

you are more than

a wet dream

covered with a towel

on a clean sheet

comfort me,

teddy bear, always . . .

heaven's river

a cracked egg?

i want to become

something more

than an ingredient

in stained memories

her last breath . . .

watching autumn

clean house

the feeling

i had when you visited

me a week

after you passed away . . .

rippled water

stop, before

the mirror inhales you . . .

morning haze


floats past you in a

bubble out

of reach, daring

you to pop it

searching, and

the thrill it gives you . . .

clumps of cloud

deep inside,

a ride you haven't

ridden yet . . .

grasping for strips

of cuttlefish

playing me

like a mah jong tile . . .


want him

to take you over

the edge . . .

into a darkness

sewn by spiders?

how many

days are not enough?

winter wind

will the fish

swimming beneath you,

open its mouth . . .

glasses of sake

and wordless songs

the book

i read half way through . . .

winter's breath?

my friend, the

lunatic girl sitting

across from me

blowing words into

unfinished stories

empty words . . .

weaving winter into

dried fish

is plan two

a walk through empty

hearts in a

city full of whores

searching for donors?

young girl,

your children eat fish

made of pulp

robert d. wilson


Thursday, November 26, 2009

November 26, 2009


WELL BY NOW, most of you living in the United States (which is far from united) have scarfed down more food in one Thanksgiving Day sitting than most people eat in two weeks in some countries, including the Philippines. Two or more slices of pie (several to choose from), mashed potatos with gravy, turkey and/or baked ham, green beans, olives, celery sticks stuffed with cream cheese; carrot jello, wine, milk, soda, hot rolls with butter, and who knows what else. And that's just for the first plateful. I've seen people go back for one or two other platefuls, all the while burping, farting, and acting like the day is heaven on earth, but happiness isn't centered around eating gluttonous platefuls of food and being nice to one another on the holidays. I've seen people in Vietnam dying from hunger on the streets, and I've seen students in the Philippines staring at students eating their lunches during lunch break at public schools, their stomachs empty, a look of envy in their eyes. There were times in my life when we were not sure what we'd eat or if we'd eat. Out of work, sick, disabled, elderly: food for gossip. Church women on the telephone calling tree saying, "Guess what, so and so is sick and can't work. Personally I think he's lazy. At least that's what Ive heard from others. Any way, the pastor asked us to pray for him. Pass the word down the tree okay?" "We have a mexican neighbor but he's a nice Mexican." "There's goes the neighborhood!" "Why don't they stick to their own kind?" "Of course she was raped. It's her own fault. Look at the clothes she was wearing!" I've even heard a teacher in an American public school's Teacher's Lounge comment to a fellow teacher: "Don't bother teaching Bobby, his mother's a whore!"

We live inside the looking class and are judged through the eyes of the Red Queen of Hearts and her deck of playing card soldiers with pasted smiles. Here at the Wonderland Amusement Park, political correctness doesn't exist. Asses aren't kissed, and everyone's a paper egret. Nothing's as it seems because most who enter through the turnstiles don't have a clue on how to wear another's sandals, let alone their own. And few people in the most populated sections of the world can afford Crocs, Berkinstocks, and Schechers. Flips flops or bare feet are the footwear of choice.

Enter the mind of someone who's been to hell and back more than once, experienced and witnessed things most will never encounter: a person caught between mirrors in an eternity that turns and twists like saltwater taffy with more salt than taffy, Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse raising their nephews (where are the children's parents?) and dating girlfriends(Minnie and Daisy) without commitment (over 50 years of courtship and no marriage?). Have you seen them in the cartoons attending church, praying, and geez, what a grouch, that Donald! He complains about everything. Maybe it's Daisy who doesn't want to get married, and Minnie's a showpiece for Mickey who's gay but refuses to out himself, fearing it will cost him his job. And it would. Homophobia runs rampant in the U.S. and oops, Mickey's black! Good thing he doesn't run for president. Obama's black and the whites expect him to clean up overnight the mess Bush made of our country and her reputation throughout the world in 4 years. Eat popcorn, drink beer, watch Friday Night Football while the wives are using the church's telephone tree and catering to overgrown Peter Pan's. Nothing's constant, everything's changing, and did you hear? Mrs. Claus ran away to Paris with one of the elves because Santa's a workaholic and has trouble getting it up.

Walk through the turnstiles, folks. Stare into the mirrors on every street in Wonderland. And please, don't bring your kids. Madness is habit forming.

a few

more moments

and then

i go to the bus stop

and play wyatt earp

the waiting . . .

will it be be dusk

or dawn?

I'll plaster

you on a thousand walls

if you harm

or disrespect her

. . . a cold winter

evening rain . . .

even you can't keep me

from coming!

She's right,

a little of both . . .

i'll focus

on the present she gives

me on christmas day

at the fast food place . . .
winter night

*arigato, gabi-san

she wasn't

into it and bought

a purse instead . . .

a migraine headache

and starbuck's coffee

will the snail

take me into her

shell, tonight?

we slept

soundly, as the elves

passed us by . . .

riding on the backs of

toads, blind to street lights

damp morning . . .

what omen from

the wind?

does she

blame herself for the

mute sound of

sleigh bells pocketed in

the purse she' replaced?

moored in mud,

the egret passing through


will the same bells

bring back the lost hope

of the baby she

was psyched to have; the wings

of an egret in flight?

rain or shine,

bridges quilt the

rice paddies

can i

compete, with echoes


between your thighs

like a handball

want a girl?

asks an old woman

selling fruit

your sandals,

ask many questions . . .

i study

the trail of rotifers

in a tide pool

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

November 24, 2009



I knew when i saw you drive up, you were relieved to be here, waiting for me to take you through the turnstiles into The Wonderland Amusement Park of the mind, sans Coney Island and Ferlinghetti, William Blake in a corner somewhere breathing madness into words, Allen Ginsberg in between hallucinations, stilled dressed in the three piece suit he wore for his birthday party a few years ago when yesterday hadn't come, and I heard Michael McClure for the first time accompanied on the piano by the Door's Ray Manzareck, my mind buzzing, mesmerized, storing up poems for days like this when your voice calls me up from a congested highway in Manila, Marcos long gone, the seeds for building a theme park of the mind, still germinating; the softness of your words bursting from my breasts like doves set free after a high school graduation in the mountain city where I used to live, residing in the bowels of madness, my inner synapses on the verge of an overload that will haunt me for the rest of my life. That honk. That smile. The look in your eyes, waiting for me to sit beside you in the love boat we installed two months ago, for lovers and those who dream when the sun passes you by.


tall buildings, sperm!

winter cold

come dawn,

the sun runs through

the clouds

looking to breast feed

another woman's dream

barren man . . .

a mirage void

of heirs


tore off his cape, then

reconsidered . . .

a flower petal caught

in a wisp of wind

if only

only, only, the

sun fed me

i am

nothing without you . . .

a lesson

taught me near the

autumn of last leaves

breeze, take me

across the river . . .

without dreams

tear me into

a thousand strips of

paper and

fold each into an

egret moored in prayer

through a

hollow chute, leaves

of song

jack fruit moon,

i hope you don't come

tomorrow . . .

wrap yourself instead in

clouds and stay my thoughts

it's hard for

me to wait for dusk . . .

lilac kiss


let it be now, when

the rain's light . . .

and you, perfumed

in sensual madness

dance, trees;

bring my love back . . .

full of seed

i 'll hoe

tonight the furrows

we planted

before dawn, under

a jack fruit moon

and dusk . . .

bring me flowers

before dawn

will the rain

be mine, karma a

field sod with

new memories

nesting in hell?

know me, dusk . . .

bury my dreams in

latent loam

taste with me

a future, sculpted with

smooth hands . . .

an old man's breath

dangling from trees

will madness

soothe me with lilac

scented grass?

brother rain,

flood the las pinas

area with

a storm no one

can leave or enter!

come, ulan . . .

wash away my sins

with stained glass

* ulan= tagalog for rain


water without a

place to go . . .

the lingering scent

of running waste

the texts

without "i love you . . ."

falling leaves

waiting for

the call that comes

too late . . .

i stare into

the looking glass

look at me!

am i a leaf that


robert d. wilson



Saturday, November 21, 2009

November 22, 2009

Enter at Your Own Risk!

In the Philippines, the Christmas season starts in October, a mixture of witches, goblins, and Santa Claus. In Catholic churches lay porcelainbaby Jesus' whiter than anyone in Nazareth, with blues eyes, wearing a ridiculously huge crown that Jesus never wore. Mary and Joseph weren't exactly the richest people in Nazareth and when 13 year old Mary bore a child that didn't come from 40 year old Joseph, they were not invited to "A" list parties. My wife and I want a baby but the chances of our having one thanks to the tubal ligation I got to make sure my wife at the the time ( a female Jeckyl and Hyde) couldn't bear another; but she did three years later claiming it was a miracle of God. Suspicious, I asked my doctor about this and he said it's possible but a one in a million chance. My daughter doesn't look anything like me, even though I refuse to accept someone else is the father. How can my wife and I have a baby? Do we go to church and pray for a miracle paying money to light candles, or pull one out of the caption lingering above our heads? Surrogate, adoption, the unexplained? Time will tell, and a mythology will center around it. Good material for a new section of the Wonderland Amusement Park . . . the Park where nothing is as it seems; my conscious and subconscious minds play together on a rusty teeter totter on the edge of the big dipper and ask you to join me in a room of mirrors open to interpretation. Come through the turnstile. Admission is free. Enter at your own risk.

how come you

you're watching movies

i 'm not

allowed to watch . . .


inside me,

a fool juggling


tonight i

learn the truth

about a

spell cast on me

in the palengke*

*palengke: pa len kay

an open wet marketplace

calm water . . .

the stench of fresh


it hurts me

to admit why

i failed to

love another til

i wasn't complete

who will

orion hunt tonight?

autumn moon

i watch you

every morning in bed,


why you haven't left me . . .

northerly winds

we drank iced

margaritas tonight . . .

without stars

will noon walk

away from me into

a misty glen . . .

her kimono bought

at a discount?

late night . . .

she enjoys the

empty stalls

will she fall

into a dream she

can't escape . . .

clouds resting on

faraway mountains?

unemployed . . .

winter seen through a

brandy glass

tonight we

ate foto maki

and walked through

christmas candles

into the tiange*

*tiange(chung gay): series of small booths

the grace of

an egret flying . . .

through my head

and dawn,

cruel keeper of all that

feeds us . . .

has she forgotten me,

this muddied reflection?

bow to

shadow's creeping silence . . .

and swallowed

robert d. wilson


Wednesday, November 18, 2009

November 20, 2009

Enter at Your Own Risk!

This morning, the sun slept in, leaving the moon to wonder aimlessly in a sky that made him look pale. Poor moon, I've told him over and over again to quit womanizing, to lay off the booze, to spend time with the wife and children (his wife is a beautiful mocha skin woman with a tight butt and big, firm breasts who has a thing for skimpy clothes and low cut, show everything but the nipples, sexy blouses made anywhere but China (Not a WalMart woman), which explains why we don't see her at night, her mocha skin and black clothes, blends into the folds of the outer edges of face. Likewise, I too substituted for Orion, who broke his ankle in an incident involving his fighting the mate of Ursus the Bear. I hate being a surrogate because I become the object of their insecurities and they use me to transfer their crap to me so they don't have to look into the mirrors the knights of the Inquisition shined on Don Quixote, who, though off, didn't hurt a flea. He battled a windmill he thought was a dragon (A good optimologist was a rarity back then). Quixote the dreamer, the man who thought nothing' was impossible like we do here at the Wonderland Amusement Park, a theme park without a theme, where nothing is as it seems. The food's lousy except for the sushi made by a pilipino after taking a one month class in Japanese culinary arts. Enter before the sun wakes up and the moon goes home to his mousy jealous.

today i

can finally say

it's morning . . .

a gentle breeze scented

with thoughts of you

ah, sweet air!

cleanse tongue and heart . . .

for dusk's spell

which cloud will

i walk through today?

will it be

the one shaped like

your breasts?

time to

be in a hurry . . .

lazy moon

those nipples . . .

tiny black grapes

waiting for

a buyer at

the palengke

crouching dog...

the emperor's temple

made of clouds

a shadow

reaches deep into

my pants . . .

is this how sir

edmund hillary felt?

waiting for

the stone buddha . . .

squeezing fruit

empty words

i've heard before:

i love you

and'll be home soon . . .

a turtle racing time

i'm tired of

waiting for the moon . . .


she sped home

like a rocket ship,

she claims,

to party with me

in her sleep


let the trees speak

their piece too

i am like

a child on christmas

anxious to

explore my stocking

when all hell breaks out

a fox pushed

another fox into

basho's pond

your eyes flash

on and off like

neon lights . . .

when a quapo white man

responds to your add

rainy day . . .

talking to words on

her computer

i slept an

hour then mounted

you again . . .

a still life straddling

the tops of mountains

bread maker . . .

have you seen the

the sun rise?

my wife talks

to an ex-fiance

this evening . . .

trees have a language

all to their own

a nara

wood fishing boat . . .

filled with stars

is it

monday that's bothering

her, the thought

of another man

swimming at night?

robert d. wilson

November 17, 2009

Another day, another now. What is, isn't, and what isn't, can be.
All is motion, in a state of transition. Just as it is here inside the
Wonderland Amusement Park, a park where nothing is as it seems.
The poetry you read below my haiga are unlike any other on the
planet because they comes from me. Visit my daily thoughts,
memories, the good, the bad, which can be disturbing for many
as I'm not a politically correct person, and unlike most
of you, I have been to hell and back riding on the back of a dragon that
swore to follow me several years ago. I was born on Friday the 13th.
Enter the park at your own risk. It's not a place for the prim and proper,
nor a playground for children. Admission is free monetarily but what you
read will affect you. Enter, and when you do, become a lifetime member
by hitting the button above the the box containing photos of very brave souls.
I wrote the poems from my conscious and subconscious mind. None are
made up. All are true. Be forewarned, it's you who'll interpret them from
your own frame of mind.

i want
the baby i can't
give you . . .
thick fog seeping
through keyholes

a talapia eating
her eggs

i want out of the
VA clinic . . .
a street family
sleeping on cardboard

a relic thought lost . . .

i strut like
a movie star in
shopping malls . . .
every eye on the kano
with a fat wad of cash

a theme park?
elephant ears in
thick grass

why does
every man get drunk
in eden?
rubbing stones together
to start a fire

a rain drop
taps me on the back . . .
too late!

another game
to play when no one
else can?
boys flying tire
irons like kites

without roots,
bamboo shoots build
their homes

a ruse to
grow black roses
dyed red?
she left wearing make-up
and a low cut blouse

entertainment . . .
sweeping fields

at dusk,
will bats follow
my breath
into elephant grass
fields shaped like quilts?

how can i
forget the time you
fucked my friend . . .
telling me only
you could do it

winter moon . . .
begging the clouds
to come back

how soon they
grow up; children
raking leaves
from the tops of
weathered mountains

is it me
i don't trust, knowing
it's winter?

a hundred
vc in the va
posing as
filipinos . . .
and no weapon

he wants
more than mirrors . . .
winter night

robert d. wilson