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

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