November 29, 2009

Today is and isn't, depending on the season you carry in your pocket, the meaning of haiku and tanka on a buffet tablet eyed by lonely fat men and celibate priests making love to platefuls of food, one after the other, like balloons about to burst, giving meaning to Paul McCartney's, All The Lonely People, diners whispering about the size of their stomachs, and Thanksgiving, another religious holiday, sans God,when people can disobey the commandment in the Bible, "Thou shall not be a glutton," and feel good about it, as if they truly give a damn. "A nigger became president!" "Fucking woman driver!" "Shit, look at that motherfucker run with the pigskin!" "Hey waiter, another kegger of Bud for my buddies!"

North America, just one of many sections of the Wonderland Amusement Park, Democrats and Republicans backstabbing one another like water on a duck's back, only the ducks are eaten in Chinese restaurants, and the few that remain are made of ink and appear in cartoons on cable television.

I squeeze

the sun today, in

lieu of you

incoming tide . . .

lolo hooks a world

spun with

captions above

empty boxes

a million

stars, and a spotted

tampon

to be

loved by someone

who sees me

in shadows unwatered

by dollar signs

spotting . . .

sometimes christmas

comes early

think of me

as a child blowing

bubbles . . .

into a sky darkened

with fish scales

a child, she

stares at her photo . . .

yesterday

convince me

you are more than

a wet dream

covered with a towel

on a clean sheet

comfort me,

teddy bear, always . . .

heaven's river

a cracked egg?

i want to become

something more

than an ingredient

in stained memories

her last breath . . .

watching autumn

clean house

the feeling

i had when you visited

me a week

after you passed away . . .

rippled water

stop, before

the mirror inhales you . . .

morning haze

money

floats past you in a

bubble out

of reach, daring

you to pop it

searching, and

the thrill it gives you . . .

clumps of cloud

deep inside,

a ride you haven't

ridden yet . . .

grasping for strips

of cuttlefish

playing me

like a mah jong tile . . .

dandelions

want him

to take you over

the edge . . .

into a darkness

sewn by spiders?

how many

days are not enough?

winter wind

will the fish

swimming beneath you,

open its mouth . . .

glasses of sake

and wordless songs

the book

i read half way through . . .

winter's breath?

my friend, the

lunatic girl sitting

across from me

blowing words into

unfinished stories

empty words . . .

weaving winter into

dried fish

is plan two

a walk through empty

hearts in a

city full of whores

searching for donors?

young girl,

your children eat fish

made of pulp

robert d. wilson

©2009