Sunday, November 15, 2009

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

feeling guilt, she
sleeps with
strangers, hoping
for a miracle

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 . . .
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

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 . . .

*ba ta an

teach me how to cast
into shadows
shaping tomorrow

christmas lights . . .
young girls caroling
to fat men . . .

robert d. wilson


1 comment:

  1. Robert,

    Okay, it's an honor; consider me a lifelong member. I have your back, and will always support you...old pajamas


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