November 15, 2009

Remember last night, the air stale from car exhaust and

stumbling drunks too high to stand in line, riding the

same ride over and over, uncertain if you're awake

or dreaming, a goose making time with wrens?  Nothing's

as it seems, or maybe people clone themselves; hoping

to win the Nobel Peace Prize for stretching a dream into

five thirty minute sequels. And every time I look at Salvador

Dali's Hallucinogenic Toreador, I think of you, totally naked,

walking through a rainbow into the mouth of a catfish ready to

swim below teutonic plates in the south china sea, your hair

woven with colored strips of foil a few notice; your breasts,

the main attraction for fat men with camcorders posing as hot

studs in the Filipino Heart, unaware that those without pictures

are rarely contacted, the Monster Mash, an old song from the

early sixties competing against Big Bad John. 

bay lights . . .

a fish farmer

watching lights

excited,

feeling guilt, she

sleeps with

strangers, hoping

for a miracle

lovely,

the full moon blushing

behind clouds . . .

thick clouds . . .

we want to make love

before a

mirror existing in the

abyss of our minds

white heron . . .

you fly out of my

chest into dawn

fly with me

into a world that makes

its own stars . . .

after the movie and

lime margaritas

without street

lights and the moon . . .

falling stars

friday the

13th, i trip

and fall in

front of diners

watching cartoons

a proud man,

ignores his wounds . . .

watching stars

watching you

blossom, flower . . .

petals

falling like leaves

in a gentle breeze

your stamen,

orchid, unravel a

thousand dreams

watching an

action movie with

you beside me,

waiting for the

the final credits

the breath of

blossoms, a lung

full of dreams

breathless,

a dream that won't

end when dawn

nudges you to wake up . . .

the lightness of being

a dream,

watching you dance?

falling leaves

the echo

of a thousand dreams

sewn into

a tapestry painting . . .

the tops of mountains

sing, river . . .

caressing sea

bound desire


they hated
filipinos during
World War II . . .
the thick stench of
bayonetted babies


summer dawn . . .
walking over dead bodies
to Bulacan


what was buddha
doing when filipinas
were forced into
prostitution and soldiers
bayonetted babies?


a smell
one can't forget . . .
bataan

*ba ta an


tilapia,
teach me how to cast
lightness
into shadows
shaping tomorrow

christmas lights . . .

young girls caroling

to fat men . . .

robert d. wilson

©2009