Wednesday, November 18, 2009

November 20, 2009

Enter at Your Own Risk!

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 . . .


she sped home

like a rocket ship,

she claims,

to party with me

in her sleep


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?

robert d. wilson

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