December 4, 2009

The other day, my publisher informed me that my book, Jack Fruit Moon, was nominated for the prestigious Pushcart Prize. I was happy, even though none of us who writes books of haiku

tanka, haiga, and other forms of Japanese short form poetry get rich, even in Japan.

Yes, one writer (Tawara Machi) sold over six million copies, has her own agent, and television show . . . She had something to say at the right time and it caught on. In Japan, school children are taught to appreciate, understand, and write tanka and haiku; a far cry from the crap taught

to most North American students. Japanese students are taught to memorize and recite famous poems, and to understand the aesthetics indigenous to haiku. Thank God for on and off-line literary journals, haiku workshops, and the access the internet gives to those wanting to study Japanese short form poetry in depth. Unfortunately, few people read the journals, participate in workshops, and take the genres seriously. Those who do are a minute segment of the North American biosphere, which is a polite way of saying none of us have the influence we'd like to have, save for the members of this or that . . .

I'm an enigma, a loner, and hate to attend meetings and play politics with the wannabe heroes of the micro mini North American universe, the co-owners of Ego Land (Not to be confused with Lego Land).

I've felt bullets whiz by me like gnats singing the Star Spangled Banner, watched blood spurt out of human beings, saw burn marks on the backs of woman who worked on our base, smoked opium, overdosed more than once on this and that, doing everything possible tofool m lay my mind, laid in a pool of vomit, done the unspeakable, was a Debalo, Boy Scout, 2nd baseman, drifted to hell and back (God bless Vietnam), organized anti war rallies, got saved, unsaved, re-saved, and hurt by a lot of mean people, I couldn't give a damn about having my name in the Who's Who, which anyone can be listed in for a price. I'm building new sections in the Wonderland Amusement Park, rides that'll blow your jets, if you have any, or give you irritable bowel syndrome. Nothing's as it seems, our minds refuse to pass go and collect $200, jail a corner in a monopoly game, our synapses exploding into a thousands stars without maps.

We're not clones burping, farting, playing Peter Pan, guzzling the same brand of beer served by Stepford Wives. I am me, you are you, a modern art splatter painting on display illegally in a rich man's house, and no one the wiser.

ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!

They gave up

waiting for my

weekly calls . . .

the children I wanted

but couldn't have

i pass a

guard working 12 hours . . .

breast cancer

she wont' tell

me the reason she waddles

through the trash . . .

her conscience riding a

store front merry-o-ground

morning rain . . .

absorbing our dog's

faint yelps

how can i

understand the breath

of one who

plows the heavens with

uneasiness?

lost, the moon

stumbles through winter . . .

thinking

breaking

water, an empty stare . . .

the end to

a surreal walk

through wonderland

the stars . . .

each of them a voice

i can't hear

can she be

a whore for a couple

nights, folding

clouds into

a newborn baby?

burning trash . . .

winter, an egret

without wings

every night

i watch pirated

movies . . .

drinking margaritas

with stuffed animals

a puppet

under the foot bridge . . ..

melting snow

a voice,

nothing more, the

wind

sculpting mountains

into forget-me-nots

she stopped

waiting for snow. . .

and santa

lay beside

me tonight, blanketed

in skin . . .

watching action movies

in buddha's belly

mimic! your

dance, dawn, the same

as dusk

short lived, the

the memories

we exchanged

in puberty, living

in robert crumb's brain

her eyes, a

television channel

singing winter

it is

difficult to

ascertain

the when and where

when time's endless

almost dawn . . .

a full moon that

doesn't stir

the smile on

your face reminds me

of a teen

planning the first

of many dates

bananas . . .

smaller ones are

the sweetest

she plays coy

at the the mall

with me . . .

knowing all the men

are staring at her

poor frog . . .

jumps into a fry pan

forged in spring

i thought

she dressed sexy

for me . . .

an unstable wind

pushing limits

feigning fear,

the smell of

incense

today could

pivot us into

a frontier

beyond the synaptic

grasp of too much

eyes, whispers

a gaggle of bamboo

sans water

promise me

anything, kano . . .

i'll leave

of the nightly dance

of rats on my roof

ox, a year's

named after you . . .

then what?

through you, a

time capsule hurled

beyond the

yesterday of

no tomorrows

the red flag

waving at me . . .

an omen?

at last,

light beyond the stained

glass smile

of a saint staring

at me through windows

entering

calamba city . . .

quail eggs

if we

didn't want a child . . .

do you think

i'd advise you on

what to say and wear?

high noon . . .

field hands earning a

buck per day

street vendors

tote salted eggs

in baskets . . .

fragile like the

homes they live in

lunch time . . .

rice and a spoonful

of ulam

humid day . . .

the woman in red

carrying

a red umbrella

down a dusty highway

summer

all year around . . .

4th level

two years

ago i walked into

a summer

that taunts my way of

looking at life

alabang . . .

love in chile corn

fed tuna

shanty towns

under billboards

hawking

plastic surgery

and luxury homes

sundown . . .

the seen and unseen

lacing stars

forgive me,

princessa, for the

times i took

you for granted . . .

spinning silk webs

sleeping with

carabao beneath

heaven's river

the crack in

your tin roof, an eye

to the world

pretending you

don't exist

sumpong . . .

the woman walking

sideways

where will she

sleep, the filthy halo

halo

woman staring at

me from her perch?

in her head,

a painting she wants

erased?

what does she

dream, the skinny

dark skinned girl

walking through the

mall of asia?

a dream,

her failure to find

fresh seed?

a world

far removed from

the stars . . .

dancing before mirrors

on pasay boulevard

she sleeps

under a bridge . . .

eating clouds

robert d. wilson

©2009