The Wonderland Amusement Park

The Dragon's Belly

2010-11-19T21:15:00.000+08:00

Parkland Security Update!

Robert D. Wilson's

The Wonderland Amusement Park

cease, wind!

there's no time for

etchings

robert d. wilson

The first bomb America and the Allied Forces

dropped on Berlin during WW II killed the only

elephant in the Berlin Zoo. The first atomic

bomb used to attack an enemy, killed 100,000

plus innocent civilians including school children

and babies.

Who made the decision to allow the only nation that's

used an atomic bomb to kill other human beings, to play a

pivotal role in determining who can and can't possess

weapons of mass destruction?

who made you

the lord of stones?

the sky,

a canvas to paint

over with leaves?

robert d. wilson

short nite . . .

the slow shift of

the charcoal

seller's wife, filleting

thrice slain dragons

robert d. wilson

"Poetry is a way of taking

life by the throat."

Robert Frost

dancing lights . . .

a starfish folding

mirrors

robert d. wilson

There are those who think this and that about that and more, thinking they've seen the light at the end of the tunnel and discovered nirvana, the emperor without a stitch on, only they think's it's me who's naked, they're riding in a delivery truck for the town's only bait shop, the sign on the truck declaring:

"Do business with the Master Baitor!"

The baitshop boys a team of not so prime time players consisting of high school nobodies who crave the limelight but never quite seem to get it, their paper mache masks unable to fool a soul, ah, at the dawn's early light, they sing their hastening written melodies, none of which catch on with the masses; their followers, lobotomized, sodomized, and scaling rainbows with rough edged razors sold in the grocery store check out line for less than two dollars, 100 pesos in the Philippines.

if only

ifs could whisper

and blossoms

sing to me, love,

between blankets

chastening walls?

a spider spinning

winter?

robert d. wilson

What are you doing right now? What are you thinking? Are you where you want to be? Or are

you living to please others who can't even please themselves because they too wear masks to keep the wolves at bay?

I was asked by a relative the other day: "Why do you do this to us?" Gee, I have PTSD, saw and experienced some things you could never handle seeing, and decided when I came back to the states after the war to make everyone's lives miserable including yours. If only people took their eyes off of themselves and stepped out of their home-made illusions for a few moments and tried to wear another's sandals perhaps we'd have a better world.

STOP THE WORLD I WANT TO GET OFF! Who the hell invented the clone machine and made the decision to decide what is right for everyone else? Couldn't be the churches. Hell, they can't agree on doctrine, many are racist, hates gays, deride anyone who dresses different then them, and where are they when millions are being butchered in Darfur, Somalia, and poisoned by the millions, compliments of the opium drug lords the U.S. government put into power to run Afghanistan?

The Pope doesn't have time. The rich don't give a damn, television evangelists are too busy ripping off their constituents, Buddha's into nothingness, and politicians are kissing the asses of anyone who can get them reelected.

Who built the mirrors, the clone machines, decides who's to die and who's to live, what we can say and what we can't say, the bubble gum in their overly large mouths getting staler by the moment?

leaf, is it wrong

for me to talk to you

in a haiku?

To Be or Not to Be . . .

2010-06-25T23:30:00.564+08:00

"Without deviation from

the norm, progress is

not possible."

Frank Zappa

**************
robert d. wilson's
The Notso- Wonderland
Amusement Park

"Castles made of sand
fall in the sea
eventually."

Jimi Hendrix

you're
absolutely right . . .
I'm all that
and more; a teeter
totter from outer space

robert d. wilson

Ever since I returned from Nam, nothing's been the same. It's gotten worse, living a life viewed through the eyes of egotistical poets who don't give a shit about Buddhism, Jesus Christ, or Japanese short form poetry . . . living in a world where women, co-workers, spouses, I'm on number four, and my two oldest children think I'm self serving, arrogant, a con artist, a manipulator, the masturbator of trusting people's minds.

i'm a
goddamned mirror,
a fried
chicken gizzard boiling
in two day old lard?

robert d. wilson

Either I'm fucking mad, socio-pathic criminal mind with a hard on for getting whatever I want regardless of who I hurt, or . . . I'm not. And if I listen to most people, I'm forced to opt for the "fucking mad, sociopathic" label, which means, I'm related to one of the angels who fell from Heaven to earth with Satan, when the Devil said, "No way, Jose" to God; and Michael Dylan-Welch blew a gasket.

 "Oh little Cody Pomeray if there had been some way to  send a cry to you even when you were too little to know what utterances  and cries are for in this dark sad earth, with your terrors in a world  so malign and inhospitable, and all the insults from heaven ramming down  to crowd your head with anger, pain, disgrace, worst of all the  crapulous poverty in and out of every splintered door of days, if  someone could have said to you then, and made you perceive, 'Fear life,  but don't die; you're alone, everybody's alone. Oh Cody Pomeray, you  can't win, you can't lose, all is ephemeral, all is hurt.'."

Jack Kerouac  

"Let us learn to appreciate

there will be times when

the trees will be bare, and

look forward to the time

when we may pick the fruit."

Anton Chekov

I went to Nam a person who had friends, didn't take drugs, hated the taste of alcohol, loved to dance, surf, and make out with girlfriends, and, believe it or not, I was still a virgin, having never learned a thing from the videos they showed us in high school assemblies of a bull and cow coupling, and my parents never told me about the bird and the bees, though like all guys my age, my hormones were on hyper-drive without a driver, and I'd learned on my own how to masturbate (and a few other things). The only sex education I knew was the advice of my parent's childhood friend who called me aside after a gin rummy game with my parents and his wife, and whispered, "Remember to wear a rubber, Bob, whenever you do it with a girl." Wow, I was set. I now held the key to the chest of sexual knowledge!

she hustled
me, knowing i was
a virgin . . .
taking my money
that night in saigon

robert d. wilson

On your mark, get set, go! My first night in the dragon's belly, hot and humid isn't the word for the weather AND the emotional tension in the air there one week before the TET Offensive, and I was going past every titty bar in downtown Saigon with my fellow
naval lab test rats, on the prowl to prove to myself and the world that Bob Wilson was a real man. Half dressed babes in sexier clothes than anything I'd seen in the States, we're clawing at me, grabbing me by the balls, putting their blouses over my head (bra-less, of course), and no parents to say "No, no, son!" The first girl who asked me out right to fuck her, I fucked, after she took me for $50 instead of the usual $5, having me tip the bartender, the janitor, the girl who led us to our room, where she laid there without emotion or movement like a dead, light brown Patty Play Pal Doll, after telling me to stick it in her pussy, and oops, I was so sexcited I forgot to use a condom, and I cummed 10 seconds into the act, thinking I'd died and gone to heaven, when in reality, I was the Saigon's biggest sucker that night, the prince of fools, getting, as I learned the next day, nothing for the money, and paying her a giant fee after I'd blown my jets, without entering airspace. My first night as a stranger in a strange land, and that was just the beginning of what became the wild toad ride through hell, and when I got out of the toad's jalopy eleven months later, hell followed me home disguised as a psychedelic dragon.

girl-child

you make me wild!

those

hard brown titties,

a map

of the park

i'll

call

wonderland

years

later

the philippines

after

a road trip

hell

with

reverend green

aka

the wild toad

the

San Francisco

museum

modern art

on a weekday

when frank zappa

and

ferlinghetti

are

sparring

with

chopsticks

chinese restaurant

serving

green tea

plastic

glasses

laced

with

koolaid

robert d. wilson

Here I am again (TODAY), inside the circus mirror, a day dream dream of infant's breath, dangling on a clothesline made in the Philippines which means it'll last two weeks before it snaps, and my wife will blame me for it, because it's the Filipino way to blame another for what you, yourself are doing, and admit it's you, the O po's (yes sirs, yes ma'ams), a self defense mechanism left over from a need to survive during Spanish rule, the American rule three times over, the Japanese occupation, Marco's dictatorship, and the current reign of the "New Spanish," the rich Filipinos (and Chinese) who own 5% of the country's wealth, and keep their compatriots the least educated of anyone in any country world-wide, and so underpaid and void of the ability to adequately feed, house, or obtain medical care for themselves so that they'll willingly bow down and kiss the 5%'s asses for the privilege of existing, although they wouldn't have to if they had a backbone and weren't afraid to look in mirrors . . . and my wife gets pissed off and ignores me for the remainder of the day and night because I noticed on . . .

and in that minute, the circus mirror explodes, shattering every hollow cement block in our subdivision . . . the cards across the street unable to play croquet to the Red Queen's liking, leaving poor Alice unsure if she was ten feet tall or too fat to flee the rabbit hole filling rapidly with shards of flying glass.

"and the walls came tumbling down!"

"Man must evolve for all human conflict

a method which rejects revenge,

aggression and retaliation. The

foundation of such a method is love."

Martin Luther King, Jr.

think me

an asp striking the

dragon that

doesn't exist, a

monk sweeping lies

robert d. wilson

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes "Awww!"

-Jack Kerouac

The world is mad and only the mad can comprehend and feel their way around the Wonderland Amusement Park, finding kindred spirits in those unable to afford mouse ears, who parrot the wind, and sing with crickets under logs felled by puppets working for greedy lumber companies. . . those living in the wild west and east of the night, fighting dragons adults don't believe exist because thy lay still after dusk under semen scented sheets, afraid to look into their own closets where skeletons wait patiently to reveal what they don't want to hear, because the walls will come tumbling down, without a chariot to come forth and carry them home.

and still,
the dredges of
wonderland . . .
scales clinging to
to autumn's tail

the east . . .

a sun dining

on teas leaves

troll with me

for feelings we haven't

felt before . . .

our critics, cartoon ducks

with empty captions

shadows

stare anxiously . . .

dawn vespers

you insist

i am normal,

labeling

me a mumu

caught between moons

the patter

of handmade drums

. . . rain song

made, insane,

building square flower

beds for

the obese, and

. . . staring through them

mute, the
egret's swipe over
quilted mirrors

she too will

die because of the

dark colors

i paint on clouds

used in restrooms

he paints the

backs of cows chewing

summer's tail

autumn dawn . . .

a young girl in torn

clothing

watching playmates

parade like camels

toddler, the

shadow you sculpt into

. . . a cockroach

henna

tattoos, the talon trail

on my arm . . .

to convince me

i'm not crazy

deep thought . . .

nudging clouds in

transit

think me

an asp striking the

dragon that

doesn't exist; a

monk sweeping lies

her skin, and
the snails picked
for lunch

haiku

isn't zen, a piece

of play dough

stretched across

gasping chasms

it could be

anyone, clacking

bamboo

tarry on

the "t" in moments

spent with you

shedding me into

a thousand pieces

jump with me,

alice, into the

march hare's mouth

savor the

sick crunch of a hen's

neck, her bowels

gargling syllables

you pawned on me

madness, your

fingers trace what mine

wouldn't

that voice

again this morning . . .

my smile

replaced with an

emmet kelly yawn

sanity,

if only your finger

touched clouds

as if

i can do something

about their

being late, the

clinic, jousting toadstools

toad, where

is the lab you make your

poison in?

side windows . . .

balinese puppeteers

cough up

phlegm with their pants down

this starless night

why should

i hit you, scattering

blossoms?

i hate the

dance of rice when

jeepney's sing . . .

her beef jerky arms;

the slouch of bridges

robert d. wilson

PTSD: Inside and Out

2010-06-13T18:48:00.006+08:00

robert d. wilson's

The Infamous

Wonderland

Amusement Park

like a dog,

ptsd

wags its tail,

trailing the scent

of steel dragons

robert d. wilson

"Pssssst! See that guy over, there? Don't stare at him! He's one of those loony toons who came back from the Vietnam War. Probably eats dog food and screams in the middle of the night."

i meet my
shipmates on the ball
field to watch
streaks of light play chess

on guernica's back

robert d. wilson

Once upon a time, when Goldwater and Ed Sullivan were everyday names, a war fought in a southeast Asian country most of us had never heard of, flashed on and off on our television sets like broken florescent lights. Close-ups of American soldiers engaged in fire fights, dead bodies in pine wood caskets covered with American flags, a Buddhist priest setting himself on fire, villagers begging us to help them. We were told the country was the Republic of South Vietnam and it was in danger of being taken over by the communists whose master plan was to take control of one small country at a time, a domino effect newscasters and politicians called it, and the North Vietnamese Communists were closely allied with the People's Republic of China, and if we didn't stop the dominos from falling, Southeast Asia would become a communist stronghold.

late at night

a dragon walks

through me

robert d. wilson

"The most shocking fact about war is that its
victims and its instruments are individual
human beings, and that these individual
beings are condemned."

Aldus Huxley

Have you noticed that those who start or jump into wars don't fight in them. Neither do their children, with few exceptions. It's the poor and middle class who fight the wars and their officers are rich kids who graduated from a military academy with little weapons training and almost zilch when it comes to people skills. They isolate themselves from the troops except on the battlefield, and see the troops as inferior human beings. It's different on the battlefield because an officer wants his troops to cover his back, so he too fights the battle and works together with all as a unified team. An officer who treats his troops badly on patrol could accidentally end up with a bullet in his back, friendly fire or otherwise.

Imagine for a few minutes that you're aboard a river patrol boat (PBR) or some other patrol boat navigating a canal (river feeders) that is only thirty feet wide. It's a starless night. No moon, no stars. The only sound, your heartbeat, breath, and the boat's engine. You can't afford to relax. You must remain hyper alert. Sleep is not an option, and smoking is a death invitation. You are scouting for the enemy who live in the area and know it better than we do. They can hear us a mile away. They're not wearing helmets, flack jackets, or camo clothing. They are dressed in black silk pajamas wearing cone hats that blend in with their surroundings. The enemy, Viet Cong (villagers fighting for the communists) quietly wait for the right moment, and may have placed mines or trip flares in our paths.

The enemy are poor villagers guaranteed two bowls of rice a day, their family will be safe from Cong retribution, and they too are led are fighting for the powerful in Hanoi who don't fight wars, nor their children. The enemy and our troops were never told
the truth about why they
were fighting each other.

I remember asking an old man (papa san) in a semi-arrogant way, "Aren't you glad we Americans are fighting for you?" His answer was unexpected. He looked at me straight in the eyes and said, "I don't want you here and I don't want the communists here. I want them to leave us alone and let us farm and feed our families."

The Communist leaders in North Vietnam despise the South Vietnamese and think of them as inferior. What they care about is something missing in their country: oil, titanium, rubber, etc. South Vietnam is a source of wealth, and nothing more. But of course, the villagers were threatened and given false propaganda
by the North. Propaganda they used as wallpaper for their thatched roof home-lets.

a dream?

workers change hats

at dusk

robert d. wilson

Oh my goodness, or should I say, hot damn? I'm opening up and talking about something I crammed inside of me since I returned from the war in 1968.
That can be scary, like opening up a can of worms, or in my case, anchovies, and facing the dragon that swallowed me, spat me out, and followed me back home. Flashbacks? Depression? Failed relationships? Poor sleep patterns? Hyper-alertness? Socially ill at ease? Keep to yourself? Overly sensitive? Forgetful?
Forget where you are at times? Outbursts of temper? Impulsive behavior? Hmmmmmmm(psst, that's just some of the symptoms), and most people don't even have a clue what PTSD is or what the initials stand for.

the man who

told me he wished we'd

go home

is sleeping today

on his grandson's mantle

robert d. wilson

"Oh dear, oh dear, I'm gonna be late for the Madhatter's tea party!"

Dr. March Hare

"Thoughts are the shadows of

our feelings - always darker,

emptier and simpler"

Nietzsche

"That guy, that . . . guy, the Vietnam vet, you know who I'm talking about, the one who stops midstream during a conversation, then starts another subject. It drives me fucking crazy. And before you can snap your fingers, he goes back to the first subject, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. He repeats some of the stories over and over and over like a tape recorder, as if that's all he thinks about."

When I stepped of the plane after leaving Vietnam, it was as if I'd fallen into the same hole Alice fell into, a wonderland of madness, at least for the so-called normal folks, whatever the hell, normal means. Even adults have their prom kings and queens! Society in San Francisco was a battlefield of the mind, as was Berkeley, Los Angeles, Hollywood, all of my old haunts.

"Something happening here.

What it is aint exactly clear

a man with a gun over there

telling me I've got to beware"

Stephen Stills

It was wild. Everyone smoking grass, popping LSD,free sex, free food, people dressed like circus clowns,cowboys, pirates, refugees from William Blake's poetry, music that was unlike anything we'd heard before . . . Jimi Hendrix burning his guitar, playing it with his teeth, and ending Woodstock with a version of the Star Spangled Banner, that for once said it exactly like I'd experienced it in Nam. America was undergoing a social revolution, MAdnEsS in the minds of those on both sides.

This is what we came home to . . . not the America we'd left and fought for to protect . . . What the hell had happened? When we returned home we were called baby killers and had to lie and deny we were Vets in order to get a $1.20 per hour job as a burger-maker for Carl's.

Whose side were we on? Who the hell thought of us at all? My fiance, when she opened her door and saw me, knew I'd changed, and, instantly, said, "Goodbye," and shut the door. Baby killers? What do you do when a seven year old girl charges at you with a hand grenade? "Now, now, little girl (as if she understood English), put down the grenade you just pulled the pin out of and go home like a good little girl."

haunted by

the deep spaces

in eyes

unprepared for the

. . . am of who i am

robert d. wilson

my feet . . .
in a salon with
autumn

bamboo,
cover me with your
bosom . . .
nurse me this noon
with mother's words

again . . .
i spend the day
with bamboo

a thousand
eyes in multiple
illusions . . .
painting canvases
Picasso would envy

would you kiss
me if you knew i'm
i'm part dragon?

a brain maimed
by the dragon who
followed me
home beneath the wings
of a great eagle

those eyes . . .
like looking through village
windows

haunted by
the deep spaces
in eyes
unprepared for the
. . . am of who i am

convince me
the thunder isn't
mortars

what's overtime
to an arched bridge who
sees her face
at dawn and dusk . . .
the heron's heir to mud?

late night . . .
a dragon walks
through me

she talks to
me until clouds part . . .
the fruit in
my hand, a bali
shadow puppet

spotty rain . . .
the darkness in my
mind's winter

like a dog
my ptsd
wags its tail
trailing the scent
of steel dragons

here and there . . .
stared at like diseased
lepers

what is and
isn't a dream?
numbers
erased, leaving me
with a choice colors

the voice
again this morning . . .
cool coffee

will you
remember me when
my smile's
replaced with an
emmet kelly yawn?

you startled
me with your yell . . .
incoming!

passing trees
on top of a
red dragon . . .
don quixote
dodging mirrors

if i drank

rain, would i too
grow limbs?

i meet my

shipmates on the ball

field to watch

streaks of light play chess

on guernica's back

dugongs
floating through stars in
glass bottomed boats

cold coffee . . .
waiting for the
man at
immigration
to process my dream

cold feet . . .
a salmon swimming
backwards

the people
shaped patterns in
my flashbacks
are laundry girls
lit with a torch

arid noon . . .
a sea turtle
laying eggs

____________

All poetry, artwork, photographs, and prose
unless otherwise indicated, are by robert d. wilson
and not for use by anyone unless permission is
given by the author.
foamfish@gmail.com

May 29, 2010

2010-05-29T00:34:00.002+08:00

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

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

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

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

May 29, 2010

2010-05-04T18:33:00.004+08:00

Robert D. Wilson's

The Wonderland Amusement Park

"A musician must make music,

an artist must paint, a poet

must write, if he is to be

ultimately at peace with himself."

Abraham Maslow

"The essence of the spirit is space,

there is nothing it holds to in the end."

Tibetan Proverb

eternity . . .

the space between two

mirrors

robert d. wilson

Space is without end. Many Occidental scholars deal with finite formulas and calculations. This is one of the major differences between Asian and Occidental thinking. One thinks outside the box, the other inside the box, with too many rules, based on education gifted to occupants of the box by those limited to the finite; thus the disappearance of a spiritual realm that includes the miracles and gifts, once practiced and believed in until most scholars inside the box sought to be their own gods and/or claimed to be able to understand God's frame of mind, which when you think about it is preposterous and illusionary.

"The insufferable arrogance of human beings

too think that nature was made solely for

their benefit, as if it was conceivable that

the sun had been set afire merely to ripen

men's apples and head their cabbages."

Cyrano De Bergerac

don't feel

embarrassed by

my writing . . .

the moon, a puppeteer

entertaining the stars

robert d. wilson

Most toddlers and babies believe in miracles. They're sensitive, often psychic like canines, able to distinguish between good and evil people. They haven't been poisoned yet by the limitations of an education based upon primitive thinking heralded as state of the art science; a science that continually changes its mind . . . with many theories, based on mental masturbation and man's desire too blame Eve for everything that goes wrong and Eve's desire to do the same to Adam, and no, she didn't meet him on the internet. He did it, she did it, the Devil made me do it ... a crock of horse shit. We need to return to the child inside of us and to let our inner child out too play. It paid off for Miro, Matisse, and Picasso, though a lot of educated scholars during their time, mocked them, and called them lunatics. Shame on those who think outside the box. . . bad people! They bring about change, pioneering new ways of viewing the world. The norm opposing change, thinking women love wearing panty hose and high heels.

"To the mind that is

still, the whole

universe surrenders

LaoTzu

look, moon's

at it again,

balancing

tin plates on the tops

of coconut trees!

robert d. wilson

nearing noon . . .
in the waiting room
to give sperm

a shadow
puppet, he transforms
dusk into
a three ring circus
peppered with fog

if only
the soldier's gunsights . . .
were mirrors

don't feel
embarrassed by
my writing . . .
the moon, a ventriloquist
entertaining stars

each of us
a gnat, practice
diving

his grace
a hard teacher
if i
ignore his lessons . . .
sharpened pungi sticks

nearing noon . . .
her body still covered
with sand

a day that's
more than a day or
a dream . . .
wilting flowers;
an unsteady sky

late noon . . .
talking hammer
too hammer

don't worry,
time flies through dark
rain clouds . . .
holding each other close
on an empty beach

your body,
like a jasmine petal . . .
folding

now or
later, jiminey
cricket
will wish upon a star . . .
dreams upended

nothing

no one can

keep us

from the dreams

we've felt at night . . .

each star a wish

an egg

waiting to hatch

under a moon

unlike

any moon . . .

when blossoms sing

and streams

laugh

like the

inner children

we let out

to play on swings

reserved for

the day

we've dreamt

about

night and day

day and night

the

ever

forever

breathing

one

breath

if you were

only a dream,

i'd wake up . . .

to the same nightmare

and fall asleep

this morning

when the stars were

falling

into a deep sleep,

i tip toed

into the petals

of a small

wild flower

and thought about

you . . .

waiting for me

to kiss you

into

a now

folding time

into

paper airplanes

both of us

blow

across rice fields

fertile

with

aaaaahhhhh!

crazy man,

throws a yoyo

into

space, expecting

it to return!

how sad . . .
the wilting of leaves
in summer

why do you

dance with women

you don't know?

a horse chewing

stinging nettles

robert d. wilson

POST SCRIPT:

I'm a Christian who follows the teaching of Buddha and Lao Tzu , neither of whom I see as gods, and yes, though it's unpopular to say Jesus Christ is God, I believe He is. Jesus and the two sages, one from India, the other from China, saw many things in a similar light.

Egos are for egotists(the insecure), greed is for the rich and the wannabees who worship power,want a license to do as they please, and see wealth as the source of all joy, but if you haven't noticed, they're never satisfied, and always wanting more. The rural throughout southeast Asia are mostly humble, honest, and family oriented compared with egotists and the rich.

It's hard for me to please people and I grew up wanting to please people, to be like everyone else, but it turned out I will always stand out, not to be equated with popularity. In the U.S, my telephone only rang when my fiance texted me or a friend or family member wanted my advice or help. I advised politicians, wrote grants, won awards, organized a kitchen for several years to feed people during Christmas, founded the young parent program in my county serving single mothers aged 13 through 21, and championed students none of my fellow co-teachers wanted to teach, I could go on and on like some poets do with the bios that accompany their poetry in journals, but what does that prove? Tastes in people are subjective. I must empty myself of self and seek love and peace for those I come across, whether or not they like or admire me. I'm just another pea in the pod; a crummy leader, lousy at helping myself, but damn, don't tell me something is impossible or a young person is worthless. I have magical powers in that arena, and, like Don Quixote, unstoppable. I put my entire self into what I make happen and nothing else exists, and I do this not for recognition, believe me, others will rob you of recognition every chance they get. I do it because I love helping others and and championing the underdog. Some of you think you know me, but you will never know me and I will never know you, We each are unique with our own cultural memories, experiences, genetic coding, and sensitivities. In Japan if you stare into a mirror holding a candle there are those who believe a ghost or demon will appear. Perhaps it's the magic mirror with worn out batteries.

i am,
and I am not . . .
water flowing

robert d. wilson

april 21, 2010

2010-04-21T01:12:00.005+08:00

Robert D. Wilson's

The Wonderland Amusement Park

"In the sky, there's no distinction of

east and west; people create

distinctions out of their own minds

and then believe them to be true."

Buddha

the egg

inside her, has

no shadow

robert d. wilson

"One can not reflect in

streaming water. Only

those who know

internal piece can

give it to others."

Lao Tze

to absorb,

listen,without

illusion . . .

the graceful waltz

of a lily's blossom

robert d. wilson

When one is not satisfied and uses deception to obtain satisfaction, his illusion becomes delusion. The world is full of actors and actresses, users, who play a role to get what they want. When they see that you're hurt,depressed, or unsatisfied, they come to you posing as a someone who genuinely cares. With open ears, they radiate compassion. They use your weakness to their advantage . . . but like any good actor, they prepare for the role, do their homework, memorize lines, and have the ability to read an audience, sensing response or lack of response, they adjust their acting to gain the desired result.

And who's fault is it that we allow this to happen? When we want something badly, impatience becomes our worse enemy, the con artist's best friend. We need to seek our own answers as to who we are, because to others we are simply illusion they only think they know.

"You are your own teacher.

Looking for teachers can't

solve your debts.

Investigate yourself to find

the truth --- inside, not

outside. Knowing yourself

is most important."

Buddha

the wind

on the trees . . . a white

butterfly

robert d. wilson

I am. You are. The products of what we think, we are artists . . . what some people like, others do not. What others think of us are lessons to be studied but not to emulate. We are in a constant state of metamorphosis . . . the less we talk and the more we listen, the wiser we become and the wiser we become, the less we know. Like Issa, the Japanese haiku poet, we are on a journey. There is more to life than what is or has been spoken. We've all experienced pain, depression, and other harsh teachers . . . now is the time to ride above the ashes on the wings of no one's whispers . . . empty your mind, toss the preconceptions, and be . . . be what? Be. I can, you can only be who we are . . . they can clone a man but not his soul. Imagine a world of soulless creations.

summer wind . . .

old egret and other

pressed petals

robert d. wilson

What is time? What is ambition? A million "whats" and the only answers to these questions and more come from our thoughts . . . our thoughts are paintings painted in

our cerebral cortexes via brushes dipped in imagination. I can choose to be mad at a person who I considered to be my enemy and seek revenge or make myself sick thinking about what she did or didn't do, but for what? Am I making my life better? Am I making another's life better or worse, as if the enemy gives a damn, or feels remorse.

My anger, sadness, however I choose to express and paint my thoughts, are just that, thoughts; illusionary to anyone else as they cannot fathom or enter my mind or know why I think this way or that, kind of like a freeway jam, people going in a thousand directions, all in a hurry to go nowhere, heavy traffic, weaving through a poorly engineered maze, or one designed by an engineer on LSD, missing turn-offs, going in circles, and thinking, thinking, thinking, Pablo Picasso on Meth. What to do? Honk your horn? Blow your top, mumble to yourself, your heart beating faster, head throbbing, fingers stuttering?

"The mind is everything. What you think, you are."

Buddha

what others

think wading through

rice fields . . .

the ruffled feathers

of a white heron

robert d. wilson

to absorb,

listen, without

illusion . . .

the graceful waltz

of a lily's blossom

the egg

inside her has

no shadow

flashback . . .

i won't follow the

white heron

until tomorrow when

the ground stops trembling

tired woman . . .

searching for the

right mirror

incoming

rocket, the shrill screech

of a peacock,

plucked of his feathers

for an old woman's hat

crawling on

my tongue, the words I

couldn't say

i didn't

sleep last night, your

dreams bathing

me in words i

just now understand

no longer

homeless, a brother

to the moon

my slate?

to rake today into

a corner

and cough, spilling words

into teacups

dried fish . . .

nanay sings arched

back ballads

will i

get to breathe deeply . . .

inhale the

universe without

turning pages?

summer breeze . . .

a song bird preening

her feathers

will she

remember the dress

i bought her . . .

when her skin formed

adam between seasons

look, workers

are laying down

their hoes!

zilch when it

comes to common

interests . . .

a black push up bra;

ma haiku; stoic herons

I write long free verse poems too:

the better the meter the more memorable

will

take

lifetime

to fathom

the

why

how

we met

and

fell

love

each of us

song birds

from

different

paddies

the air thick

with the scent

ulam

and

angst . . .

the sky

thick

with portends

from east and west

buddha and gods

our field

of vision

blinded

at first

flash

from another's

rifle

and

when the

smoke clears

are

wearing

each

other's

wings

heron, to

dive deep and stand still . . .

morning prayer

the river

behind our home, reads

til dawn . . .

when bamboo fronds

tickle the clouds

summer breeze . . .

a song bird preening

her feathers

in a

tomorrow turned

upside down . . .

no second hands

or black spiders

the cockroach

scurries through changes . . .

steadfast

we merge, our

minds making love with

thoughts we breathe . . .

the daily news folded

into paper cranes

i'd love to

paint inside your mind . . .

curled ferns

only the

moon knows how we

feel at night

when dreams come alive

and wait, wait for me

robert d. wilson

April 5, 2010

2010-04-05T01:41:00.225+08:00

Robert D. Wilson's

"The Wonderland Amusement Park"

will the

cheshire cat smile at

me like a

leftover moon

on leave from his senses?

robert d. wilson

i feared the

darkness that cradled me,

and listened

to teardrops sweep

away the sea

robert d. wilson

"Be kind, for everyone

you meet is fighting a

hard battle."

Plato

The other day on Facebook, I asked a well meaning question that, to my surprise, lit the embers of a woman who made it her mission then and there to chastise and deride me publicly, even those she's never met or spoke with me publicly. I'd read a chapter in the 1970's in the book, Utopian Motherhood, that has plagued me ever since. The author talked about the public's perception of artists. He said many non-artists, those seduced by the media into following the herd to feel a sense of belonging and safety, think of artists as mentally unsound, oftentimes disturbed, rebellious, abnormal (whatever that means) and eccentric, if not teetering on the edge of madness.

Most artists, those not using this year's popular colors or colloquialisms, are free spirited people who view life differently. To them, if everything were black and white, there would be no need for art, as art is not black and whit. It sets no boundaries. It's akin to being a crew mate on the Starship Enterprise, exploring an eternity without end, never knowing where it will lead them Picasso could never do what he did at the turn of the 20th Century when he followed Nietzche's advice, destroying beauty to create a completely alien kind of beauty, in life and in his relationships with women, as one of Cubism's pioneers. What he did in the beginning of the 20th century was light years away from anyone's norm, then or now. At first he paid the price for his so called social deviation, the object of ridicule and ostracism, selling few paintings, and thought of as an insane young man. Yet he was secure enough in his ability to see and feel what most do not sense or see, that he continued what most called a downward path, yet he forged a new path for the art world, and his paintings before and after his death cost millions of dollars to purchase, and crowds at modern art museums but tickets in advance to attend showings of his original works. In a period of 12 years, beginning at the age of 14, he went from painting Primera Comunion to Avignon. Picasso left home and went to Paris, a haven at the time for intellectuals, poets, writers, open minded artists, and rich people , who if you were lucky to have one as a fan, could support you until you made it on your own. I don't believe in luck. You have to go after it and make it happen. Some people sell their souls, like a dance teacher lover of a relative who lover in order to survive had to do sexual favors for the woman who was elderly. We've all done things that weren't kosher to get what we wanted.

"We live in illusion and the

appearance of things. There is a

reality. We are that reality. When

   you understand this, you see that
   you are nothing, and being nothing
   you are everything. That is all."

Buddha

I used to compare myself with others and felt inferior because they in a way were my gods. I started surfing after I graduated from middle school (Grade 8). It was a great summer and I had a lot of good friends. People introduced me to other peope who in turn introduced me to others who were popular. I dated a lot, was a weight lifter, and enter the local dance contests, won at most, and even danced in contests on the Sam Riddle Show. That summer was over before it started. On my first day at High School (9th grade) I hung with a crowd of surfers who literally worshipped a guy in the 12th grade who who was a top surfer, owned a woody wagon, and had a way with the girls. I did this for a few days until I heard him talk to a buddy in a low voice, "I wish these wannabe leeches would stop following me." I learned a lesson that day: to be myself and never walk in another's shadow. And to be yourself, you has to be true to your heart. I can't be you and and you can't be me. Each of us are who we are. Hanging out with a popular person is like

allowing someone to choose a cologne for you. Every cologne a person wears will smell different on the next person.

The dilemma: follow the herd and be someone you're not in order to be liked by insecure people who need a mirror OR be true to yourself and face the consequences. What others think of us is illusionary. They can never know us because they don't have the rite of passage through your soul.

"Throw your dreams into space like
a kite, and you do not not know
what it will bring back, a new
life, a new friend, a new love,
a new country."

Anais Nin

my mind's the

sea you sat under,

basho, when

you stared across the

sea at sado island

robert d. wilson

it's cold
she tells me, pretending

it's a joke . . .

an open window

with the shades drawn

timeless, her
voice a changeling . . .
summer night

the circus
today was usurped
by rain . . .
the clowns on our floor
watching cartoons

ahead . . .
the half life of dusk,
shading trees

why she played
god and wrestled
the wind,
i'll never know . . .
canyon echoes

the moment
between codas . . .
breeding words

i am at
times unlike the bible
i don't read . . .
a man trapped inside
the bathroom mirror

can stone and
dew share a petal?
fencing words

i prefer
the solitude
of calm . . .
a theater of
song without thought

your mind . . .
plays vibes in a pasture
of egrets

bent over,
she listens to the
cadence beneath
the soil, singing it'd
way to the ocean

ipod and
bird song; sweet the
empty minf

my fee
love the caress of
wet fingers . . .
just a dream,
chides icarus

wind, you
flatter me with touch . . .
those thoughts!

a fool to
think you could love me,
an old man . . .
inside a circus mirror
writing poetry

paste this words,
sun, into your
reflection

am i in
dali's painting of the
toreador . . .
erasing memories
with rainbows?

dragonfly . . .
carry my dreams across
the ocean

who's real
in the volcano's
bowels . . .
brown skinned children
bowing to the reeds

laughter . . .
tiptoes past a
reticent moon

her feet,
like the egret's,
a still life
painted with breath
on a bamboo screen

our puppy
visits in the dreams we
can't remember

one more time,
the tic tock of dali's
twisted clocks . . .
erasing the fence between
dreams and reality

at dawn,
when dreams rest . . .
our breath

in the
kitchen at dawn,
stirring the
puzzle's missing piece
into a cup of moon

shed your leaves,
tree, i want to see
all of you!

will the moon
dance tonight when
wolves howl . . .
their pitiful songs;
the sky pouring milk

cicada,
is she worth dying for?
windsong

pigmy deer
trod through the meadow
of my dream . . .
led by a shaman
shaking a sage brush

walking
past lantern fish . . .
short night

she feeds me
fish and rice on the
day she
returns to the church . . .
wearing blue denim jeans

starless night . . .
i close my eyes, sifting
silence

robert d. wilson
©2010

March 16, 2010

2010-03-11T00:50:00.042+08:00

Robert D. Wilson's

The Wonderland Amusement Park

"Where nothing is as it seems . . ."

teach me, tree,

to be contented with

paper prayers

robert d. wilson

"The darkness which clings to every personality is the door into the unconscious and the gateway of dreams, from which those two

twilight figures, the shadow and the anima, step into our nightly

visions or, remaining invisible, take possession of our

ego-consciousness."

Carl Jung

"If we value independence, if we are disturbed by the growing conformity of knowledge, of values, of attitudes, which our present system induces, then we may wish to set up conditions of learning which make for uniqueness, for self-direction, and for self-initiated learning."

Carl Rogers

when autumn

strips me of leaves,

and silence

loses patience . . .

a still life egret

robert d. wilson

Many people today in the Western World still play "follow the leader.) It's called the herd instinct. Afraid to rock the boat, become a social outcast (Remember George Orwell's Animal Farm?) People in the herd are intimidated by those individuals who don't play by the herd's rules. "It's my football and if you don't let me be the team captain, I'll take my football home and you won't be able to play!" Insecure people find comfort in mirrors, not wanting to look bad or stand out.

If you think, dress, and like the same things they do, you become to them, anathema, someone to gossip about behind their backs and to avoid or ridicule in the company of others. Recently a man who called me a close friend, put me involuntarily on a right wing political opinion e-mail list that ridiculed our current president, calling him an imbecile and acting as if they had they were messengers of the light who knew more than those who elected him, and the list members were mean spirited, and raped with their words the unity Obama is tried to bring to the world. When I offered a diverse opinion, I was trashed verbally, and my friend said he was breaking off our friendship.

Wrote Edwin Markham in the last two lines of his poem, The Man With The Hoe:

"How will it be with kingdoms and with kings.

With those who shaped him to the thing he is?

When this dumb terror shall reply to God

After the silence of the centuries? "

I will never be a jack in the box and I will never understand why so many deride me behind my back when they have never met or spent more than a few minutes with me, or took the time to put down their goddamned mirrors and engage in an intelligent conversation where disagreement wasn't a threat or an indication that I an possessed with a giant ego, and what is egotism, but another world for an inferiority complex?

why the call,

when angels have wings

and buddha

eats popcorn outside

a videoke bar?

robert d. wilson

Why do people want to change everyone into a carbon copy of themselves and why do these same people look to the media owned by the rich and powerful without conscience as their role models? What is an individual? Why are they so threatening to secure people?

Wrote Buddha: "All that we are, arises with our thoughts."

What's the source of our thoughts? Monks wading through the synaptic relay system flashing on and off like lightening inside our heads, in a mass that's one fifth used? Manipulative media posing as reality, meting out information paid for by sociopathic leaders who care only about their needs and wants and to hell with anyone else? Who pays for the books in our school, the campaigns politicians run, the production of movies, owns the media, and thinks the world's a giant billboard to promote themselves in the guise of making our lives easier? Who gave the world Thalidomide? Who finances the music on teenage radio stations that call women bitches and instruct our children to act like gang members? Why is the quality of education in America and many other countries dropping? Why do countries REALLY go to war? Who orchestrated the stock market crash of 1929? Who had Kennedy and Martin Luther King Junior killed? Why can't American win a war anymore? Why does American oil companies export more oil than they import, and why then, the high prices?

buddha says

to want nothing . . .

christmas lights

robert d. wilson

I think of the poor in the Philippines (the majority are), and I see single mothers forced into prostitution in order to support their children. They hang out at night on their backs in smokey bats surrounded by christmas lights, looking up at disgusting drunks, pretending they love Pee Wee's playhouse, in order to buy diapers and formula. Or look for Americans online promising them the world, letting those online treat and talk to them like whores, flashing their penises and asking them for anal sex the first few seconds they chat? Fat old men who couldn't find a date if they wanted to in their own country who's 18-25 and beautiful!

They live in a country where 5% control the wealth, where the average pay is $75 to $150 monthly, the food's as expensive as in the West, where flush toilets with lids are rarities . . . what's a gas stove? a refrigerator? Healthy food, medical care, or an abode that isn't infested with cockroaches and rats, with ceilings three to four foot high, made of scrap metal and plastic, below billboards with famous movie stars posing in the latest fashions, driving the latest cars?

In America, poverty is hid better: inside of mortgages, high interest rates, soaring health insurance rates (50% or more in the U.S.A.) don't have adequate medical insurance, the minimum pay scale is impossible to live on, homeless families (not just drunks and drug addicts) live under bridges; squalid shacks abet the rims of every major city, and the White House is located two blocks away from some of the worst and most dangerous slums in the country. In America, everything's about image, just as it is in many other countries including China, India, the Philippines, and France. An image projected for what?

"There can be no tyrants where there are no slaves."

Jose Rizal

The man whose writings caused Filipinos

to stand up against the Spaniards and the

Roman Catholic Church and seek independence.

He was shot to death by a firing squad for the crime of

speaking up for what others were afraid to do, having

been slaves to fear.

I could not

be the sun

if I told

the moon to suckle

stars in darkness

robert d. wilson

"Change will not come if we wait

for some other person or some other

time. We are the ones we've been

waiting for. We are the change

that we seek."

Barrack Obama

the clouds

the clouds, the coolness

of base dreams . . .

robert d. wilson

I cannot tell you what to do, just as you cannot tell me what to do. We don't know each other nor wear each other's sandals. I am inconsistent, suffer from depression, and spent to long in the hole Alice fell onto; a dream within a dream painted by Salvadore Dali in the times between painting madness with hidden vaginas and canvases showing reverence to God.

Compare yourself with no one. Have the integrity and guts to be YOU or you'll one day forget who you are, and become a wind-up monkey clanging cheap metal symbols. No man is God and those who think they are, don't give a damn about you. All they care about is how they look and how much money they possess, because it is money and image that allow them to control politicians, the media, the contents of school textbooks, and you as people. They don't write their own speeches, and most don't send their children to war. Follow that still small voice inside your heart, and have the integrity to to be you and not another's clone. It's something we all can work on.

her hair . . .

thoughts forgetting

some day

where did the

sun and moon go?

in my world.

i walk through words

painted with emotions

the sun and

the doors it hides . . .

stolen seed

targeting who?

the man on the moon,

or, the man

you married and left

to sip alone with clouds?

the abyss

below me, smiles . . .

sleepless night

how did it

feel raping my mind,

magic man?

was it better

than raking leaves?

this morning

our dog beat the rooster . . .

high notes!

sordid, the

changes in your

persona . . .

ants on parade

carrying locusts

be my friend,

tree, teach me when

to shed

two more

days without slumber . . .

my love, a

spoiled child, playing

with barbie dolls

arid noon . . .

50 tadpoles racing

to the moon

there's hope . . .

her shoulders slump,

walking to

the car; a tea leaf

skimming emotions

addicted

to flirting with weeds . . .

summer drought

have i gone

too far, living in

a world,

without bubbles;

every wall a bargirl?

on the moon,

elbowing rosehips . . .

melon seeds

when autumn

strips me of leaves,

and silence

loses patience . . .

a still life egret

she asks the

poor monk for a loan . . .

twilight dusk

why the call,

when angels have wings,

and buddha

eats popcorn outside

a videoke bar?

render me,

an echo that yells . . .

canyon walls

gud a.m., po.

how can i answer

an angel . . .

swimming in the

pasig river?

a young boy

rides a two wheeled trike . . .

into dusk

today, the

same games, back and forth

through a net

like a goldfish

blowing bubbles

the warm sound

of words falling from

granite stone

a dream

free falling into

the mouth of

a python, wearing

a latex mask

chopping yams . . .

the sushi lady

thinks of home

if i'm

the jerk you say

i am,

stuff me inside

a circus canon

lunch time . . .

his angel stares at

spring onions

she's back

in the main arena . . .

my heart's eye

on the high wire

balancing to bows

buddha says

to want nothing . . .

christmas lights

buddha, i

like you as a man,

not a statue . . .

staring past the poor

without expression

summer warmth . . .

another day in

Manila

all, it seems,

want this and that . . .

friendship,

a toddler who

never learned to share

do i wait

alone for death?

dry leaves

it's good to

wake up to a cock's

aria . . .

the coolness of wind

chasing clumps of cloud

robert d. wilson