November 26, 2009

ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!

WELL BY NOW, most of you living in the United States (which is far from united) have scarfed down more food in one Thanksgiving Day sitting than most people eat in two weeks in some countries, including the Philippines. Two or more slices of pie (several to choose from), mashed potatos with gravy, turkey and/or baked ham, green beans, olives, celery sticks stuffed with cream cheese; carrot jello, wine, milk, soda, hot rolls with butter, and who knows what else. And that's just for the first plateful. I've seen people go back for one or two other platefuls, all the while burping, farting, and acting like the day is heaven on earth, but happiness isn't centered around eating gluttonous platefuls of food and being nice to one another on the holidays. I've seen people in Vietnam dying from hunger on the streets, and I've seen students in the Philippines staring at students eating their lunches during lunch break at public schools, their stomachs empty, a look of envy in their eyes. There were times in my life when we were not sure what we'd eat or if we'd eat. Out of work, sick, disabled, elderly: food for gossip. Church women on the telephone calling tree saying, "Guess what, so and so is sick and can't work. Personally I think he's lazy. At least that's what Ive heard from others. Any way, the pastor asked us to pray for him. Pass the word down the tree okay?" "We have a mexican neighbor but he's a nice Mexican." "There's goes the neighborhood!" "Why don't they stick to their own kind?" "Of course she was raped. It's her own fault. Look at the clothes she was wearing!" I've even heard a teacher in an American public school's Teacher's Lounge comment to a fellow teacher: "Don't bother teaching Bobby, his mother's a whore!"

We live inside the looking class and are judged through the eyes of the Red Queen of Hearts and her deck of playing card soldiers with pasted smiles. Here at the Wonderland Amusement Park, political correctness doesn't exist. Asses aren't kissed, and everyone's a paper egret. Nothing's as it seems because most who enter through the turnstiles don't have a clue on how to wear another's sandals, let alone their own. And few people in the most populated sections of the world can afford Crocs, Berkinstocks, and Schechers. Flips flops or bare feet are the footwear of choice.

Enter the mind of someone who's been to hell and back more than once, experienced and witnessed things most will never encounter: a person caught between mirrors in an eternity that turns and twists like saltwater taffy with more salt than taffy, Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse raising their nephews (where are the children's parents?) and dating girlfriends(Minnie and Daisy) without commitment (over 50 years of courtship and no marriage?). Have you seen them in the cartoons attending church, praying, and geez, what a grouch, that Donald! He complains about everything. Maybe it's Daisy who doesn't want to get married, and Minnie's a showpiece for Mickey who's gay but refuses to out himself, fearing it will cost him his job. And it would. Homophobia runs rampant in the U.S. and oops, Mickey's black! Good thing he doesn't run for president. Obama's black and the whites expect him to clean up overnight the mess Bush made of our country and her reputation throughout the world in 4 years. Eat popcorn, drink beer, watch Friday Night Football while the wives are using the church's telephone tree and catering to overgrown Peter Pan's. Nothing's constant, everything's changing, and did you hear? Mrs. Claus ran away to Paris with one of the elves because Santa's a workaholic and has trouble getting it up.

Walk through the turnstiles, folks. Stare into the mirrors on every street in Wonderland. And please, don't bring your kids. Madness is habit forming.

a few

more moments

and then

i go to the bus stop

and play wyatt earp

the waiting . . .

will it be be dusk

or dawn?

I'll plaster

you on a thousand walls

if you harm

or disrespect her

. . . a cold winter

evening rain . . .

even you can't keep me

from coming!

She's right,

a little of both . . .

i'll focus

on the present she gives

me on christmas day

waiting
at the fast food place . . .
winter night

*arigato, gabi-san

she wasn't

into it and bought

a purse instead . . .

a migraine headache

and starbuck's coffee

will the snail

take me into her

shell, tonight?

we slept

soundly, as the elves

passed us by . . .

riding on the backs of

toads, blind to street lights

damp morning . . .

what omen from

the wind?

does she

blame herself for the

mute sound of

sleigh bells pocketed in

the purse she' replaced?

moored in mud,

the egret passing through

arteries?

will the same bells

bring back the lost hope

of the baby she

was psyched to have; the wings

of an egret in flight?

rain or shine,

bridges quilt the

rice paddies

can i

compete, with echoes

bouncing

between your thighs

like a handball

want a girl?

asks an old woman

selling fruit

your sandals,

ask many questions . . .

i study

the trail of rotifers

in a tide pool

November 24, 2009

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ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!

I knew when i saw you drive up, you were relieved to be here, waiting for me to take you through the turnstiles into The Wonderland Amusement Park of the mind, sans Coney Island and Ferlinghetti, William Blake in a corner somewhere breathing madness into words, Allen Ginsberg in between hallucinations, stilled dressed in the three piece suit he wore for his birthday party a few years ago when yesterday hadn't come, and I heard Michael McClure for the first time accompanied on the piano by the Door's Ray Manzareck, my mind buzzing, mesmerized, storing up poems for days like this when your voice calls me up from a congested highway in Manila, Marcos long gone, the seeds for building a theme park of the mind, still germinating; the softness of your words bursting from my breasts like doves set free after a high school graduation in the mountain city where I used to live, residing in the bowels of madness, my inner synapses on the verge of an overload that will haunt me for the rest of my life. That honk. That smile. The look in your eyes, waiting for me to sit beside you in the love boat we installed two months ago, for lovers and those who dream when the sun passes you by.

leap

tall buildings, sperm!

winter cold

come dawn,

the sun runs through

the clouds

looking to breast feed

another woman's dream

barren man . . .

a mirage void

of heirs

superman

tore off his cape, then

reconsidered . . .

a flower petal caught

in a wisp of wind

if only

only, only, the

sun fed me

i am

nothing without you . . .

a lesson

taught me near the

autumn of last leaves

breeze, take me

across the river . . .

without dreams

tear me into

a thousand strips of

paper and

fold each into an

egret moored in prayer

through a

hollow chute, leaves

of song

jack fruit moon,

i hope you don't come

tomorrow . . .

wrap yourself instead in

clouds and stay my thoughts

it's hard for

me to wait for dusk . . .

lilac kiss

tomorrow

let it be now, when

the rain's light . . .

and you, perfumed

in sensual madness

dance, trees;

bring my love back . . .

full of seed

i 'll hoe

tonight the furrows

we planted

before dawn, under

a jack fruit moon

and dusk . . .

bring me flowers

before dawn

will the rain

be mine, karma a

field sod with

new memories

nesting in hell?

know me, dusk . . .

bury my dreams in

latent loam

taste with me

a future, sculpted with

smooth hands . . .

an old man's breath

dangling from trees

will madness

soothe me with lilac

scented grass?

brother rain,

flood the las pinas

area with

a storm no one

can leave or enter!

come, ulan . . .

wash away my sins

with stained glass

* ulan= tagalog for rain

unanswered,

water without a

place to go . . .

the lingering scent

of running waste

the texts

without "i love you . . ."

falling leaves

waiting for

the call that comes

too late . . .

i stare into

the looking glass

look at me!

am i a leaf that

crackles?

robert d. wilson

©2009

UNTIL NEXT TIME . . .

November 22, 2009

Enter at Your Own Risk!

In the Philippines, the Christmas season starts in October, a mixture of witches, goblins, and Santa Claus. In Catholic churches lay porcelainbaby Jesus' whiter than anyone in Nazareth, with blues eyes, wearing a ridiculously huge crown that Jesus never wore. Mary and Joseph weren't exactly the richest people in Nazareth and when 13 year old Mary bore a child that didn't come from 40 year old Joseph, they were not invited to "A" list parties. My wife and I want a baby but the chances of our having one thanks to the tubal ligation I got to make sure my wife at the the time ( a female Jeckyl and Hyde) couldn't bear another; but she did three years later claiming it was a miracle of God. Suspicious, I asked my doctor about this and he said it's possible but a one in a million chance. My daughter doesn't look anything like me, even though I refuse to accept someone else is the father. How can my wife and I have a baby? Do we go to church and pray for a miracle paying money to light candles, or pull one out of the caption lingering above our heads? Surrogate, adoption, the unexplained? Time will tell, and a mythology will center around it. Good material for a new section of the Wonderland Amusement Park . . . the Park where nothing is as it seems; my conscious and subconscious minds play together on a rusty teeter totter on the edge of the big dipper and ask you to join me in a room of mirrors open to interpretation. Come through the turnstile. Admission is free. Enter at your own risk.

how come you

you're watching movies

i 'm not

allowed to watch . . .

insecurity?

inside me,

a fool juggling

moons

tonight i

learn the truth

about a

spell cast on me

in the palengke*

*palengke: pa len kay

an open wet marketplace

calm water . . .

the stench of fresh

carrion

it hurts me

to admit why

i failed to

love another til

i wasn't complete

who will

orion hunt tonight?

autumn moon

i watch you

every morning in bed,

wondering

why you haven't left me . . .

northerly winds

we drank iced

margaritas tonight . . .

without stars

will noon walk

away from me into

a misty glen . . .

her kimono bought

at a discount?

late night . . .

she enjoys the

empty stalls

will she fall

into a dream she

can't escape . . .

clouds resting on

faraway mountains?

unemployed . . .

winter seen through a

brandy glass

tonight we

ate foto maki

and walked through

christmas candles

into the tiange*

*tiange(chung gay): series of small booths

the grace of

an egret flying . . .

through my head

and dawn,

cruel keeper of all that

feeds us . . .

has she forgotten me,

this muddied reflection?

bow to

shadow's creeping silence . . .

and swallowed

robert d. wilson

©2009

November 20, 2009

Enter at Your Own Risk!

This morning, the sun slept in, leaving the moon to wonder aimlessly in a sky that made him look pale. Poor moon, I've told him over and over again to quit womanizing, to lay off the booze, to spend time with the wife and children (his wife is a beautiful mocha skin woman with a tight butt and big, firm breasts who has a thing for skimpy clothes and low cut, show everything but the nipples, sexy blouses made anywhere but China (Not a WalMart woman), which explains why we don't see her at night, her mocha skin and black clothes, blends into the folds of the outer edges of face. Likewise, I too substituted for Orion, who broke his ankle in an incident involving his fighting the mate of Ursus the Bear. I hate being a surrogate because I become the object of their insecurities and they use me to transfer their crap to me so they don't have to look into the mirrors the knights of the Inquisition shined on Don Quixote, who, though off, didn't hurt a flea. He battled a windmill he thought was a dragon (A good optimologist was a rarity back then). Quixote the dreamer, the man who thought nothing' was impossible like we do here at the Wonderland Amusement Park, a theme park without a theme, where nothing is as it seems. The food's lousy except for the sushi made by a pilipino after taking a one month class in Japanese culinary arts. Enter before the sun wakes up and the moon goes home to his mousy jealous.

today i

can finally say

it's morning . . .

a gentle breeze scented

with thoughts of you

ah, sweet air!

cleanse tongue and heart . . .

for dusk's spell

which cloud will

i walk through today?

will it be

the one shaped like

your breasts?

time to

be in a hurry . . .

lazy moon

those nipples . . .

tiny black grapes

waiting for

a buyer at

the palengke

crouching dog...

the emperor's temple

made of clouds

a shadow

reaches deep into

my pants . . .

is this how sir

edmund hillary felt?

waiting for

the stone buddha . . .

squeezing fruit

empty words

i've heard before:

i love you

and'll be home soon . . .

a turtle racing time

i'm tired of

waiting for the moon . . .

passersbye

she sped home

like a rocket ship,

she claims,

to party with me

in her sleep

wind!

let the trees speak

their piece too

i am like

a child on christmas

anxious to

explore my stocking

when all hell breaks out

a fox pushed

another fox into

basho's pond

your eyes flash

on and off like

neon lights . . .

when a quapo white man

responds to your add

rainy day . . .

talking to words on

her computer

i slept an

hour then mounted

you again . . .

a still life straddling

the tops of mountains

bread maker . . .

have you seen the

the sun rise?

my wife talks

to an ex-fiance

this evening . . .

trees have a language

all to their own

a nara

wood fishing boat . . .

filled with stars

is it

monday that's bothering

her, the thought

of another man

swimming at night?

robert d. wilson

©2009

November 17, 2009

Another day, another now. What is, isn't, and what isn't, can be.

All is motion, in a state of transition. Just as it is here inside the

Wonderland Amusement Park, a park where nothing is as it seems.

The poetry you read below my haiga are unlike any other on the

planet because they comes from me. Visit my daily thoughts,

memories, the good, the bad, which can be disturbing for many

as I'm not a politically correct person, and unlike most

of you, I have been to hell and back riding on the back of a dragon that

swore to follow me several years ago. I was born on Friday the 13th.

Enter the park at your own risk. It's not a place for the prim and proper,

nor a playground for children. Admission is free monetarily but what you

read will affect you. Enter, and when you do, become a lifetime member

by hitting the button above the the box containing photos of very brave souls.

I wrote the poems from my conscious and subconscious mind. None are

made up. All are true. Be forewarned, it's you who'll interpret them from

your own frame of mind.

i want

the baby i can't

give you . . .

thick fog seeping

through keyholes

karma?

a talapia eating

her eggs

nervous,

i want out of the

VA clinic . . .

a street family

sleeping on cardboard

unearthed,

a relic thought lost . . .

stamina

i strut like

a movie star in

shopping malls . . .

every eye on the kano

with a fat wad of cash

a theme park?

elephant ears in

thick grass

why does

every man get drunk

in eden?

rubbing stones together

to start a fire

a rain drop

taps me on the back . . .

too late!

another game

to play when no one

else can?

boys flying tire

irons like kites

without roots,

bamboo shoots build

their homes

a ruse to

grow black roses

dyed red?

she left wearing make-up

and a low cut blouse

tonight's

entertainment . . .

sweeping fields

at dusk,

will bats follow

my breath

into elephant grass

fields shaped like quilts?

how can i

forget the time you

fucked my friend . . .

telling me only

you could do it

winter moon . . .

begging the clouds

to come back

how soon they

grow up; children

raking leaves

from the tops of

weathered mountains

is it me

i don't trust, knowing

it's winter?

a hundred

vc in the va
posing as
filipinos . . .
and no weapon

he wants

more than mirrors . . .

winter night

robert d. wilson

©2009

November 15, 2009

Remember last night, the air stale from car exhaust and

stumbling drunks too high to stand in line, riding the

same ride over and over, uncertain if you're awake

or dreaming, a goose making time with wrens?  Nothing's

as it seems, or maybe people clone themselves; hoping

to win the Nobel Peace Prize for stretching a dream into

five thirty minute sequels. And every time I look at Salvador

Dali's Hallucinogenic Toreador, I think of you, totally naked,

walking through a rainbow into the mouth of a catfish ready to

swim below teutonic plates in the south china sea, your hair

woven with colored strips of foil a few notice; your breasts,

the main attraction for fat men with camcorders posing as hot

studs in the Filipino Heart, unaware that those without pictures

are rarely contacted, the Monster Mash, an old song from the

early sixties competing against Big Bad John. 

bay lights . . .

a fish farmer

watching lights

excited,

feeling guilt, she

sleeps with

strangers, hoping

for a miracle

lovely,

the full moon blushing

behind clouds . . .

thick clouds . . .

we want to make love

before a

mirror existing in the

abyss of our minds

white heron . . .

you fly out of my

chest into dawn

fly with me

into a world that makes

its own stars . . .

after the movie and

lime margaritas

without street

lights and the moon . . .

falling stars

friday the

13th, i trip

and fall in

front of diners

watching cartoons

a proud man,

ignores his wounds . . .

watching stars

watching you

blossom, flower . . .

petals

falling like leaves

in a gentle breeze

your stamen,

orchid, unravel a

thousand dreams

watching an

action movie with

you beside me,

waiting for the

the final credits

the breath of

blossoms, a lung

full of dreams

breathless,

a dream that won't

end when dawn

nudges you to wake up . . .

the lightness of being

a dream,

watching you dance?

falling leaves

the echo

of a thousand dreams

sewn into

a tapestry painting . . .

the tops of mountains

sing, river . . .

caressing sea

bound desire


they hated
filipinos during
World War II . . .
the thick stench of
bayonetted babies


summer dawn . . .
walking over dead bodies
to Bulacan


what was buddha
doing when filipinas
were forced into
prostitution and soldiers
bayonetted babies?


a smell
one can't forget . . .
bataan

*ba ta an


tilapia,
teach me how to cast
lightness
into shadows
shaping tomorrow

christmas lights . . .

young girls caroling

to fat men . . .

robert d. wilson

©2009