May 29, 2010

robert d. wilson's

Wonderland Amusement Park
"A writer is not a confectioner,
a cosmetic dealer, or an entertainer."
Anton Chekov

fuck you,
dragon, you followed me 

home and 

ravaged my soul . . .

may the thirteenth

robert d. wilson

©2010

"The future influences the 

present just as much as the

 past."

"Error has transformed animals

into men; is truth perhaps

capable of changing man back

into an animal?"

Nietzsche

everything

centers around the

       brown recluse . . .

cornered, i write

tanka and haiku

robert d. wilson

©2010

I turned 61 on the 13th of May. Yesterday, I was a teenager in high school. The following day, I was Naval seaman on a joint naval/army base in the heart of the Mekong Delta region of the Republic of South Vietnam, in the middle of Salvador Dali's Surrealistic Toreador, trying to figure out what color of the rainbow to dance on: bright red, dull brown, shiny black, lush green, reddish crimson, and and a wet metallic gray. 

"When God hands you a

gift, he also hands you a 

whip; and the whip is 

intended for self-

flagellation solely."

Truman Capote

raven, may i 

join you in your prayer?

starless night

robert d. wilson

©2010

Creative people feel more than the average bear.  And because we feeeeeeeeeeel, we see and sculpt in our minds, paths made of neurons, exploring realms many would call MAD.  Kerouac, Ginsberg, William Blake, Robin Williams, Frida Kahlo, Matisse, Picasso, Dali, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Coltrane, Ezra Pound, one of your relatives or neighbors . . . the pathfinders, those declared insane decades and centuries past . . . Don Quixotes  unafraid of mirrors and dark dungeons, those who stretch boundaries, like Vikings and Easter Island inhabitants drifting across foggy, unpredictable oceans on small wooden boats before Columbus was weaned from breast feeding, and Sutter lied to his drinking buddies about discovering a rare yellow metal in Northern California that Native Americans, Mexicans, and Chileanos  had already discovered years earlier.  

  a ha

Come on, now

luring the Traveler

Mighty Voyager

Curious, into its dark womb

The graves grinning

Indians of night

The eyes of night

Westward lurking

into the brothel, into the blood bath

into the Dream

The dark Dream of conquest

& Voyage

into night, Westward into Night

Jim Morrison

"Take me for a trip upon . . .your magic sailing ship, my senses have been stripped . . ."

and I'm laying across my bed typing like a crazy man that makes William Blake and Freddy Mercury look like cub scouts on chocolate milk, it's almost 4 in the morning, PTSD has a way of doing that to a Vietnam Vet . . . imagine being rocketed and mortared for three weeks in a row seven to 8 times a night?  I'm at my best at night and in the early morning . . . my place of zen, a nipa nut of madness . . . I can think what I want, silence is golden, hyper alert at all times, and I don't take a shit sometimes fr two or three days . . . and before you laugh and called me crazy or worse, remember it was the U.S. government that sent us to the battlefield of psychedlic genocide . . . "my senses have been stripped . . ." and at any moment, Jim Morrison would have been right, if one of our names was on the tip of a bullet, mortar, rocket, mine,or a sharp knife . . . "this is the end my friend . . ."

And have you noticed, how many of the corrupt politicians and the rich who pay for their campaigns and use the politicians like marionette puppets, holy Howdy Doody, send their sons and daughters to war?  It's the poor and the middle class who get their guts splattered, heads decapitated, their legs and other body parts scattered in rice paddies and clumps of elephant grass, and later scooped up like  horse shit during a parade and placed in body bags and shipped home to mothers and fathers , brothers and sisters, who will never be the same after seeing their family member, if they've one lucky enough to be identified, unzipped from the bag and given to a mortician to prepare for burial . .  the mortician hurriedly trying to put together the jig saw puzzle of jig saw puzzles, knowing he doesn't have all the pieces, and even if he did, the body would never look like a body.  "Go to war, boys and girls", preached Nixon and Johnson and the two Bushes, their relatives and family eating food prepared at home by world class chefs, their sons and daughters rushing to the mall in the $100,000 porsches to buy the latest designer sunglasses and $2000 pairs of denim jeans . . we are the champions . . . of the world!"

the moon and

i stare through each other

like idols . . . 

no votive candles

or plates of fruit

robert d. wilson

I'm asked by a lot of girl/women here in the Philippines questions that tell me one thing:

they want me to make their dreams come true and don't see it happening here in a corrupt country where most are extremely poor, men make little income, and television stirs their desires.  I am 61, and not the hunk I was when I was in my teens. Today, why would a young girl/woman in her teens to late twenties desire someone who's a lot older than her? It gives the unenlightened the idea that they are quapo (handsome) and appreciated for who they are instead of for what they have. I have a tendency, or for me        perhaps it's a desire, to be gullible and suckered into the wiles of a false dream that can hurt

my wife and others.  It's easy to be selfish. Too easy.  The easy road is often the wrong course.

                

"As you think, so shall you become."

                                         Bruce Lee                                     

      fading moon . . .

eating unripe mangoes

after work

robert d. wilson

Being that are self images are illusions we paint within our minds, and if not us, who paints them, it

is our's alone to paint.  I say this to you and to myself, because, like you, I am far from evolved and

not an actualized person hanging on a medallion around a surfer's neck.

young mothers

washing laundry . . .

talking stones

will i lift

myself out of the

canvas i

painted this morning

with yesterday?

fading moon . . .

eating unripe mangoes

after work

the slowness

of your words, washing

me in

a baptistry 

sculpted with false starts

i fool

myself, not you . . .

chatting stones

what is time 

for slugs living

under rocks?

the dark sky and stars

jumping on spring beds

today and

later, painted thoughts . . .

drunken moon

apes, as if

they'd want to be

related

to wannabe gods

on ten dollar bills

tears . . .

stepping over

midnight

changes, as

if they're bayawaks

shedding skin . . .

the two of us

hanging from tree limbs

  

*Bayawaks are monitor lizards 

 that grow to be five feet.

the unsaid . . .

a new moon wriggles

out of dusk

can you

fathom what has

no end; the

what and why beyond

the stars, useless thoughts

my mind . . .

somewhere in a rainbow's

echo

the moon and

i stare through each other

like idols . . .

no votive candles

or plates of fruit

angel wings . . .

the cools winds above

lake taal  

 

      * Lake Tall is a huge lake with a volcano

        in the middle of it that is one of the worlds

        most active volcanoes.  It's 8 miles from our

        home.  It is also one of the windiest places

        in the Philippines.

i can't

unlight the candle

we lit

when the turtle left

its shell to gather seed

spearing fish . . .

the turtle without

a shell

we walked 

into a fire

i couldn't put

out until

dawn wandered

sultry night . . .

a glass shard blinks

at the stars . . .

another 

dream, shot to hell . . .

her smile, a

non-disposable

styro-foam billboard

salient, 

the dance of blossoms

at sunrise

feeling

loneliness at dawn . . .

snails in

the rice paddies

plucked by young women

frog song . . .

the whisper of

shooting stars

robert d. wilson