Monday, January 4, 2010

January 3, 2010


winter night . . . 
at the fast food place
waiting for
snails to inch past
what's left of dinner

robert d. wilson

Welcome to the year of the Tiger, whatever that means. I was born in the year of the Ox. I didn't win the lottery, my house didn't burn down . . . just the usual good and bad days with the bad, of course, more memorable than the good, because hell, it hurts.  We've all had good and bad years. During my year and this year, I'm adjusting to a new marriage, learning to love myself ( a prerequisite to loving others), which is a hard to do when you were abused as a child, one of the shortest kids in 6th grade which meant playing right field (if you play at all), and last up to bat (which pissed me off ). In Little League I was the league's premier base stealer and one of the top second basemen.  There's a pecking order from grade school through high school. And look around, it follows us into adulthood.  The rich, good looking kids, who were good at sports or, if a girl, pretty, well endowed, and again, monied.  This was the group who played God and defined the term, norm. I dislike this group.  A few were respectful, but most  of them looked down on those whom they considered inferior.  And the campus thought of them as gods who defined the norm?  And where are these gods today? Some are in prison, others holding down normal jobs, a few are successful, and those who inherited the family business.  Good looks counts for little these days. Was Bill Gates a member of the in-crowd when he was a teenager?  Opra?  Larry King?  

The in-crowd today are the famous, ugly or beautiful, who have lots of the almighty dollar. I could be the ugliest man on earth BUT if I have lots of money and fame, beautiful women will come out of the woodwork wanting a part of me . . . (society's prostitutes).  I lose my wealth and fame, they scatter.  In your local community, who serves on the school board, the city council, and other boards?  Those with the bucks.  

People in America worship wealth.  They do in all countries.  In the Philippines, I can have a class A looking 18 year old girlfriend just because I'm a Kano (an American). They'll go to bed with me in an instant, if I tell them I want them.  Filipinas in the Philippines where I live, worship white men.  To them, they are rich, light skinned, and a ticket to the good life. 

The Wonderland Amusement Park is everywhere, folks.  We have branches in every country, every geographical locale, a world where anything goes. madness reigns, all is constant, what is, isn't; what isn't is or can be . . . an amusement park of the mind.  The one your visiting here is mine. And few in the egotistical poetry world, have the guts to allow others to visit their Wonderland.  We all have to look good, right? Make a good impression, follow the norm, follow the dictates of the rich and famous, locally or otherwise.  And the ones we like best are mirrors.

Welcome to Robert D. Wilson's Wonderland Amusement Park.  Enter if you dare, and when you come out, and the mirror you saw discomforted you, you will criticize the hell out of this park, regardless of the quality of poetry or haiga on its cranial walls.  The norm? You tell me and WHY!?!

when the red 
tide ebbs, her blood
thickens . . .  
eating green mango
with bagaong

the phone rings
and she's wide awake . . .
winter's end

a spoiled one,
the high blooded girl
before me . . . 
a field of wheat grass
devoured by locusts

interesting . . .
the bursting of bulbs
in spring

careful, your
words, like a spear,
push into
my loins deeply . . . 
silent bamboo

if only
to be a bulb,
sipping sun

every day, 
i see the desire
to stretch out 
beyond the canvas
others paint for you

i comb your
tresses with my breath . . .
spring blossoms

for a moment, my
dreams and yours
in a nara wood boat
on heaven's river

a new year . . .
we'll follow the tiger

forget the
what and if, questions
formed in 
captions above your head . . .
and kiss me . . . gently

together ,
we unbutton the stars . . .
one by one

i fell asleep
this afternoon, composing
you willed me to write . . .
seven pieces of fruit

in dreams 
i shouldn't dream . . .
eyes that paint 

i cast 
my line into a
school of 
fish playing hooky . . .
laughing water

stars . . . 
paddle tonight down
heaven's river 

she melted 
when she heard him 
sing, ready 
to spend a week. . .
a job, she said, a job

he'll sing 
inside her blossom
. . . shuddering petals

will she play
the same role with
me after 
spending a week
with an actor?

tall flames . . .
goes wonder woman play
with matches?

letting her fuck 
man after 
man in herman 
hesse's steppenwolf?

will dragon
eat my brain again?
late winter

this park . . .  
i shake my fears 
in a can
letting them fall
in a crap game

will spring mock
me, knowing our 
door's locked?

why do i
let why slither
inside me . . .
a masochist
drawing water?

new year's eve . . . 
a dragon strolling
through rice fields

she steps out
of the magazine
knowing she
looks hot, happy so
many men desire her

crisp night . . . 
i bounce with the moon
between stars

i can't tell her
how i feel or shake my
fists at God . . . 
the anger in me
trembling with fear

snow will dust my
daughter's hair

she chooses
me over God . . . 
becomes a
whore to give us the 
child i can't give her

the day nears 
when i'll hang alone
on bare limbs

it's just a
job she tells herself
at dawn . . . 
an art deco building
without tenants

if we were
lovers, would spring
come sooner?

winter night . . . 
at the fast food place
waiting for
snails to inch past
what's left of dinner

driving in
and out of dreams . . .
jack fruit moon!

will snail
take me into her
shell tonight . . . 
silent voices dance
inside the mind?

crazy man!
your concept of sex 
is dog shit!

why won't I
let another pole my
nara wood raft
past the stars into
tall grass dreams?

to think i
feared you, darkness . . . 

what will she
do at night, when her doll
stops speaking . . .
her baby crawling
across christmas lights?

running trees . . . 
the stench of shanties

tomorrow, the Bobster
turns seven . . . 
my arms stretched unnoticed
across the ocean

even in 
sleep, makiling waters
the earth

for now, 
the wetness of what 
to come when 
the moon must leave like
a vampire at dawn

robert d. wilson

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