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 . . .
passersbye
she sped home
like a rocket ship,
she claims,
to party with me
in her sleep
wind!
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?
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please feel free to make comments.
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.