Don't be still borne!
Follow your heart not others!
"THOSE WHO DREAM BY DAY ARE COGNIZANT OF MANY THINGS THAT ESCAPE THOSE WHO DREAM ONLY AT NIGHT."
EDGAR ALLAN POE
"One must still have chaos in oneself to give birth to a dancing star."
Friedrick Nietzsche
Am i a
pawn to be used as
a signboard . . .
advertising the queens'
talking mirror?
robert d. wilson
©2010
Again and again, I'm haunted by the injustices I see, feel, and even participate in. Most people are insecure in one way or another and the media doesn't help things. Financed by the rich who want to get richer, they want us to believe the propaganda they tout. Like the "in crowd" when you were in high school, they tell you what to wear, eat, say, live, do and not do. And because you want acceptance, you bow down to their beliefs thinking you're on the trail to becoming a mirror of success.
"Why does the caterpillar and the ant
have to be enemies? One eats leaves,
and the other eats caterpillars. Oh, I
see now."
Jack Handy
I'm thinking of the words of the song by Carole King, You've Got A Friend:
I'm thinking of the words of the song by Carole King, You've Got A Friend:
"They'll hurt you,
and desert you
And take your soul
if you let them
Oh, but don't you
let them."
Is this what you want for yourself, your family, your children, and friends? Soulless, selfish, sociopathic, liars, and egomaniacs controlling your thoughts,
via the media? In the Philippines you'd never think an American could ever be poor because the media portrays an America they want non-Americans to believe in. Kanos as they are called here (I live in the Philippines) are thought to be rich, and beautiful 18 year old girls will marry an obese, non-mannered, illy dressed man, two to three times older than them in two seconds hoping to escape the poverty here. I am made to feel like a movie star everywhere I go. Thank God I have a wife who won't prostitute herself for a better life in America. For eight years, I had a wife from the Philippines who said and did everything I wanted, to get to America, and once she got what she wanted, she became a monster. She turned out to be a complete nightmare, a chameleon, who gave me a nervous breakdown not once but twice.
On Filipino television, the actors and actresses in the sit coms and movies are light skinned and live in homes, eat food, and wear clothing far different from that of the masses. Again, the media opiates Filipinos into thinking they
On Filipino television, the actors and actresses in the sit coms and movies are light skinned and live in homes, eat food, and wear clothing far different from that of the masses. Again, the media opiates Filipinos into thinking they
have a good life but need to work harder. A laborer building a house is paid two to three hundred pesos a day ($4 to $6). How hard does one have to work in a country where 5% control most of the wealth, and political corruption is the norm, as if America is any less corrupt. Do the children of wealthy politicians and business people fight in wars, give a damn about the poor, and do their part to better education and medical health in any country, save for a few? Is the high school prom king and queen mentality alive and well, thanks to wealth, plastic surgeons, and financial influence in most countries?
And me, helping everyone but myself and shaping like clay a karma I have trouble controlling, living in Alice's Wonderland, pretending it's the real thing and not something lifted from an old Walter Cronkite newscast or "You Are There" television segment, that's now recorded and packaged as DVDs for old farts like myself who can't accept that we aren't young anymore riding a horse bareback through the center of Richard Nixon's hometown with long hair and no shirt, like an adonis borrowed from an anteater's dream. Everywhere I look, a dream gone bad, a destiny that laughs at me, karma attached to a tight spring that pops out of a cartoon colored box whenever the hell it wants to, and I do the passive aggressive waltz I did as a child living at home when my father's temper took the wrong turn, but did the opposite until after I remarried a second time, a third time, and now a forth time . . . hating blank walls; my plans and dreams caught in a circus mirror, courting me like a blank eyed mound of sugar free tasteless jello, and guess what? I'm beginning to wonder what's what and whether or not I will ever again have the courage to face the dragon without blinking and telling him it's over, I'll do whatever I want to, and if you try to stop me I'll fight you. and this time, win, win, win, and to hell with jack-in-the-boxes and past memories tied tightly around my braining squeezing every last drop of tea from the Mad Hatter's tea cup. But little old me, talking big, dreaming as usual, at the keyboard, my sanctuary, my opiate, stillness in the womb, staring at blank walls that say nothing, while the clay I manipulate takes a shape and life of its own . . . the media, cultural memories, home teaching, experiences, education, the effects of drugs I started taking in the Navy as a bad as nothing, a dash of this and that, an old man pretending he's something he's not or maybe he still is, but won't leave the White Rabbit's warren, caught up in an hallucination that has me by the tail and refuses to let me go. GO TO HELL, DRAGON! Go to fucking hell!
Welcome to the Wonderland Amusement Park, ladies, gentlemen, or whoever the hell you call yourselves these days. Nothing here's what it seems to be, including your mind if you will accept the fact, a canvas without numbers. And I'm not a prom king telling you what to do or receiving a fat check from the media to opiate your mind to make them richer: The truth, folks, the truth; whatever it is today when Dali gets out his brush and does his thing on the canvas you and I call our souls.
And me, helping everyone but myself and shaping like clay a karma I have trouble controlling, living in Alice's Wonderland, pretending it's the real thing and not something lifted from an old Walter Cronkite newscast or "You Are There" television segment, that's now recorded and packaged as DVDs for old farts like myself who can't accept that we aren't young anymore riding a horse bareback through the center of Richard Nixon's hometown with long hair and no shirt, like an adonis borrowed from an anteater's dream. Everywhere I look, a dream gone bad, a destiny that laughs at me, karma attached to a tight spring that pops out of a cartoon colored box whenever the hell it wants to, and I do the passive aggressive waltz I did as a child living at home when my father's temper took the wrong turn, but did the opposite until after I remarried a second time, a third time, and now a forth time . . . hating blank walls; my plans and dreams caught in a circus mirror, courting me like a blank eyed mound of sugar free tasteless jello, and guess what? I'm beginning to wonder what's what and whether or not I will ever again have the courage to face the dragon without blinking and telling him it's over, I'll do whatever I want to, and if you try to stop me I'll fight you. and this time, win, win, win, and to hell with jack-in-the-boxes and past memories tied tightly around my braining squeezing every last drop of tea from the Mad Hatter's tea cup. But little old me, talking big, dreaming as usual, at the keyboard, my sanctuary, my opiate, stillness in the womb, staring at blank walls that say nothing, while the clay I manipulate takes a shape and life of its own . . . the media, cultural memories, home teaching, experiences, education, the effects of drugs I started taking in the Navy as a bad as nothing, a dash of this and that, an old man pretending he's something he's not or maybe he still is, but won't leave the White Rabbit's warren, caught up in an hallucination that has me by the tail and refuses to let me go. GO TO HELL, DRAGON! Go to fucking hell!
Welcome to the Wonderland Amusement Park, ladies, gentlemen, or whoever the hell you call yourselves these days. Nothing here's what it seems to be, including your mind if you will accept the fact, a canvas without numbers. And I'm not a prom king telling you what to do or receiving a fat check from the media to opiate your mind to make them richer: The truth, folks, the truth; whatever it is today when Dali gets out his brush and does his thing on the canvas you and I call our souls.
like my first
wife, the party's mine
you stay home
writing poetry in a
world you won't share
robert d. wilson
©2010
will i hear
the yellow roses sing . . .
at night?
am i
another sucker
chosen by
a woman wanting
out of her country?
why does the
male let the widow
eat his cries?
she wrote to
me a love letter . . .
at least she
told me she did, then
took away the words
salient
night . . . a million
mute stars
she fucked him
like a porn star and
came hard . . .
blaming me for
having my tubes tied
will she hurt
the surrogate too . . .
rootless tree
the day
before she leaves me to
fuck a man
she's never met . . .
only echos
i want to
slap her badly . . .
winter nap
am i what
they say i am,
a hard up
old man singing
to coconut trees?
tear me in
two and count pesos . . .
summer nears
careful, i'm
not the dumb man you
think i am . .
a poet from
the planet venus
spoiled brat!
like your mother, an
inch of spring
i've given
all to you, even
my children . . .
chase me away
from the dragon
will dark brown
satiate my cries?
moonless night
is it hard
carrying a child
i didn't
give you; a fish
out of water?
warm water . . .
feeding mixed dreams
at dusk
the blush of
a moonlit beach;
later . . .
anxiety
and seconds thoughts
hot summer . . .
the stillness of an
empty womb
too late for
sushi, i locked
myself out
of the bedroom
i'll sleep in alone
she'll sleep well
in the morning . . .
passive wind
if it weren't
for you, i'd be
a sideshow . . .
juggling syllables
through a fiery hoop
she'll sleep in
this morning, her back
facing west
why not
others, your love
for me like
a doe suckling
newly born fawns
in the west
there is no sun . . .
spring morning
talking to
him during lunch,
you see taal
in the background
coughing up clouds
perplexing . . .
your job, gathering seed
for autumn
we can't think
of what if, the
sun behind
clouds nursing
newly sown rice
my mind can't
concentrate today . . .
karma's wail
alice has
been in the hole
for days now
and won't leave until
the party's climax
after this,
no more surfing . . .
without waves
like my first
wife, the party's mine . . .
you stay home,
writing poetry in a
world you won't share
robert d. wilson
©2010
