Saturday, May 29, 2010

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

"The future influences the 
present just as much as the

"Error has transformed animals
into men; is truth perhaps
capable of changing man back
into an animal?"


centers around the
       brown recluse . . .
cornered, i write
tanka and haiku

robert d. wilson

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

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
to wannabe gods
on ten dollar bills

tears . . .
stepping over

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

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 . . .

dream, shot to hell . . .
her smile, a
styro-foam billboard

the dance of blossoms
at sunrise

loneliness at dawn . . .
snails in
the rice paddies
plucked by young women

frog song . . .
the whisper of
shooting stars

robert d. wilson

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