Wednesday, November 18, 2009

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

1 comment:

  1. I am deeply touched, my husband, for using a photograph of me
    in your haiga.

    I love you, hon.



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