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

karma?

a talapia eating

her eggs

nervous,

i want out of the

VA clinic . . .

a street family

sleeping on cardboard

unearthed,

a relic thought lost . . .

stamina

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

tonight's

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

©2009