November 26, 2009

ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!

WELL BY NOW, most of you living in the United States (which is far from united) have scarfed down more food in one Thanksgiving Day sitting than most people eat in two weeks in some countries, including the Philippines. Two or more slices of pie (several to choose from), mashed potatos with gravy, turkey and/or baked ham, green beans, olives, celery sticks stuffed with cream cheese; carrot jello, wine, milk, soda, hot rolls with butter, and who knows what else. And that's just for the first plateful. I've seen people go back for one or two other platefuls, all the while burping, farting, and acting like the day is heaven on earth, but happiness isn't centered around eating gluttonous platefuls of food and being nice to one another on the holidays. I've seen people in Vietnam dying from hunger on the streets, and I've seen students in the Philippines staring at students eating their lunches during lunch break at public schools, their stomachs empty, a look of envy in their eyes. There were times in my life when we were not sure what we'd eat or if we'd eat. Out of work, sick, disabled, elderly: food for gossip. Church women on the telephone calling tree saying, "Guess what, so and so is sick and can't work. Personally I think he's lazy. At least that's what Ive heard from others. Any way, the pastor asked us to pray for him. Pass the word down the tree okay?" "We have a mexican neighbor but he's a nice Mexican." "There's goes the neighborhood!" "Why don't they stick to their own kind?" "Of course she was raped. It's her own fault. Look at the clothes she was wearing!" I've even heard a teacher in an American public school's Teacher's Lounge comment to a fellow teacher: "Don't bother teaching Bobby, his mother's a whore!"

We live inside the looking class and are judged through the eyes of the Red Queen of Hearts and her deck of playing card soldiers with pasted smiles. Here at the Wonderland Amusement Park, political correctness doesn't exist. Asses aren't kissed, and everyone's a paper egret. Nothing's as it seems because most who enter through the turnstiles don't have a clue on how to wear another's sandals, let alone their own. And few people in the most populated sections of the world can afford Crocs, Berkinstocks, and Schechers. Flips flops or bare feet are the footwear of choice.

Enter the mind of someone who's been to hell and back more than once, experienced and witnessed things most will never encounter: a person caught between mirrors in an eternity that turns and twists like saltwater taffy with more salt than taffy, Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse raising their nephews (where are the children's parents?) and dating girlfriends(Minnie and Daisy) without commitment (over 50 years of courtship and no marriage?). Have you seen them in the cartoons attending church, praying, and geez, what a grouch, that Donald! He complains about everything. Maybe it's Daisy who doesn't want to get married, and Minnie's a showpiece for Mickey who's gay but refuses to out himself, fearing it will cost him his job. And it would. Homophobia runs rampant in the U.S. and oops, Mickey's black! Good thing he doesn't run for president. Obama's black and the whites expect him to clean up overnight the mess Bush made of our country and her reputation throughout the world in 4 years. Eat popcorn, drink beer, watch Friday Night Football while the wives are using the church's telephone tree and catering to overgrown Peter Pan's. Nothing's constant, everything's changing, and did you hear? Mrs. Claus ran away to Paris with one of the elves because Santa's a workaholic and has trouble getting it up.

Walk through the turnstiles, folks. Stare into the mirrors on every street in Wonderland. And please, don't bring your kids. Madness is habit forming.

a few

more moments

and then

i go to the bus stop

and play wyatt earp

the waiting . . .

will it be be dusk

or dawn?

I'll plaster

you on a thousand walls

if you harm

or disrespect her

. . . a cold winter

evening rain . . .

even you can't keep me

from coming!

She's right,

a little of both . . .

i'll focus

on the present she gives

me on christmas day

waiting
at the fast food place . . .
winter night

*arigato, gabi-san

she wasn't

into it and bought

a purse instead . . .

a migraine headache

and starbuck's coffee

will the snail

take me into her

shell, tonight?

we slept

soundly, as the elves

passed us by . . .

riding on the backs of

toads, blind to street lights

damp morning . . .

what omen from

the wind?

does she

blame herself for the

mute sound of

sleigh bells pocketed in

the purse she' replaced?

moored in mud,

the egret passing through

arteries?

will the same bells

bring back the lost hope

of the baby she

was psyched to have; the wings

of an egret in flight?

rain or shine,

bridges quilt the

rice paddies

can i

compete, with echoes

bouncing

between your thighs

like a handball

want a girl?

asks an old woman

selling fruit

your sandals,

ask many questions . . .

i study

the trail of rotifers

in a tide pool