December 13, 2009

Beneath every stone, a darkness waiting in line to suckle sunlight

We all have our ups and downs on journeys, but it's usually the downs we remember because of

the scars they leave and pain we feel. Allen Ginsberg wrote incredible poetry inspired by William Blake, that will be remembered throughout the ages, but his inner life was tortured by a lack of love and permanence. Jack Kerouac, whose books inspired a new generation who believed they could recreate the world into a peaceful eden, was a closet Republican who drank himself to death and brought into the world children, like his daughter, Jan, whom he literally ignored.

"I shambled after as I've been doing all my life, after people who interested me, because 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..."

- Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Most art is born through pain, even comedy. The great comedian, WC Fields, died from alcholism privately in a small private psychiatric ward in Pasadena, California. Jonathan Winters was in and out of mental institutions several times. James Taylor, the folk singer, was no stranger to mental wards due to his penchant for heroin. Two other famed folk singers, the last one I'd met and talked to, Tim Buckley and Phil Ochs killed themselves due to writer's block. Ernest Hemingway shot himself, Vincent Van Gogh suffered from depression and a mental order some claim to be bi-polar disorder, once cut off his ear, only sold one painting in his lifetime, and eventually shot himself. Poets, Sylvia Plath, Sarah Teasdale, Vachel Lindsay committed suicide at the height of their fame.

Goodbye, my friend, goodbye
My love, you are in my heart.
It was preordained we should part
And be reunited by and by.
Goodbye: no handshake to endure.
Let's have no sadness -- furrowed brow.
There's nothing new in dying now
Though living is no newer.
Written in his own blood, and given to a friend the day before he hanged himself.
~~ Sergei Esenin, Russian poet, d. Dec. 28, 1925

Shiki, was no stranger to pain, living out his short adult life in his bedroom, writing haiku and tanka inspired by what he saw through his window and what he'd remembered. His final poem:

our loofah is blooming
here's a dead man
totally clogged with phlegm

Tr. Eiko Yachimoto

Basho lived in a self enforced poverty, having divorced himself from the samurai heritage of his elders, lived out the rest of his life as a wanderer/poet . . . perhaps an early day Kerouac, practicing Buddhism, enjoying a glass os sake, some say he was a pedophile, a womanizer, teacher, writer . . . yet one who is considered the father of Haiku even though others before him wrote haiku.

People who experience great pain and anguish, both genetic and experiential, in their lives, coupled with a cultural memory indigenous to their own bringing, have much to draw upon in terms of artistic expression. Artists oftentimes are considered odd, out of sync, eccentric, because they couldn't if they wanted to, be a sheep.

The Wonderland Amusement Park, the stopover for artists and other creative people, who live in and have experienced a world far different than most, is open . . . a park of mirrors, nightmares, shadows, the equivalent of taking LSD inside of an echo. Enter at your own risk. Bounce back and forth from life to hell in an endless circle.

is this a

child, searching for his

mother's breasts?

sicker then

picasso, sculpting

paper goats . . .

rearranging

a woman's psyche?

mad hatter . . . .

sipping tea with a

cartoon

shattered, the

anger deep inside

my bowels . . .

i wanted to hate her,

still the wind's dervish

no light . . .

dawn and dusk, travel

through me

the look on

your face the night i

knocked on the

door and told you

to return home . . .

i can't watch

the sun rise with a . . .

nonchalant moon

you looked out

the hotel window . . .

and became

a car passing

through wonderland

the lack of

light in your eyes . . .

leaving winter

i joined you

five times today . . .

breathing

in the feelings we

felt the morning before

no time for

day, a poet fleeing

feelings

fleeting, the

thoughts bouncing between

bells, an echo

determined to

make me crazy

a parrot?

an echo caught between

canyon walls?

i stretch

my wings and sleep,

moored in mud . . .

too much pain, caught

in the dragon's breath

this dark cave . . .

i sigh at what could

have been stars!

i pass between

moons wearing a cloak

of words . . .

a soldier, a lamb,

wading in mirrors?

unmoored, where

would i fly to, the

same two holes?

tall trees . . .

a calliope

of dirges

a shot? a knock? my

grandfather's breath?

i make love

to you through moons . . .

fighting fear

warm mud . . .

what am i, a limb

wearing an

egret's feathers,

stalling winter?

clothing . . .

a time to wander through

speechless trees?

ruefully,

i help you search your

womb for a

child that isn't mine . . .

a long winter

madness . . .

seeing through the stone

buddha's eyes

robert d. wilson

©2009

December 9, 2009

Boy, life can through one a punch, and sometimes the punches connect better than previous times. Marriage ad relationships have never been my forte. I 've been married 4 times and divorced three. And between all of them, I have 5 children and one stepson who I consider my own. I suffer from depression, and whether you admit it or not, 50% of you do too. Add a war, child abuse, and life will throw you a few curves that change your thinking forever. Sometimes I retreat into my room and won't see sunlight for a month or more, burying myself in poetry, writing, reading, studying, and other pursuits. I literally isolate myself from others. I'm better now and am adjusting to living in a very foriegn southeast Asian country that resembles Vietnam in a lot of way but isn't Nam, because most of the people are catholics, not Buddhists, and don't live in a geographically flat area. When I left for the States, the states had changed radically. Everyone it seemed, were on drugs, fighting wars, and were naive enough to think they could alter the thinking of the rich and powerful who in actuality control the world even those that are democracies. They're are no true democracies in the world today. It takes a rich man to get elected and the contributions from the big lobbies and companies, make many politicians, political prostitutes. Can I ramble on or what? I went home from one war to another, and found Id' adjusted to the Asian way of life and no longer felt comfortable living in the U.S. I love the U.S. and am proud to be called a citizen, but tolerance for differences, alternative thinking, and the artistic way of seeing life in this part of the world is more to my liking. It's a financially poor country and the politicians here are for the most part corrupt and given to graft, which I despise. I am not one for small talk and don't feel a need to justify everything I do or say. I don't live to be another's mirror and following the norm to me is boring. I'm am a retired educator and when I taught, I taught those other teachers didn't want to teach. Maybe my suffering from depression and PTSD gave me an empathy others lacked but I was successful in changing many students lives. Having been where many of them have been, I oftentimes feel their frustration and anger; the psyche in them screaming to be loved and accepted.

That's all for now. I have reality to swim through and sometimes it just plain sucks! And sometimes, it's a giant wow!

i watch a

young girl slither

into the

tall elephant grass

smile she calls home

the war

here years ago . . .

rustling grass

why the frown,

the grimace, your arms

stretching

granite mountains into

salt water taffy

espresso . . .

two shots of barako,

and you

an e-mail . . .

someone i respect

handed me

the rose i needed

this afternoon

maybe i

should disappear . . .

blade of grass

she ignores

my texts and calls . . .

a game?

incoming tide

without fish bait

tired of

games and childish spats . . .

rose thorns

long after

noon, i woke up to

my wife's eyes . . .

playful, longing,

asking me to rise

cloudless sky . . .

clear eyes after a

good night's sleep

two, the

number that settled

my soul . . .

crossing rainbows

kissing shadows

crimson sun . . .

mirroring the fields

below it

the plastic

cockroach she handed

me last night

at the mall, and a photo

of my ex-wife

sleeping with

carabao underneath

heaven's river

she nails

herself on the cross . . .

her father

placed on the christmas

tree they couldn't afford

shoots of grass . . .

a playground for

loose prayers

tonight we'll

put chili on the

ac wires . . .

our dog hates it when we

feed her to a shy moon

clumps of cloud . . .

saying no to an

outstretched hand

laughter . . .

somewhere beneath the

bamboo,

shabu shabu monks

bow to glass gods

twilight, the

mute song of stars

with stone eyes

inside the

the bayawak's throat . . .

a dragon

riding in the hollow

of a jeepney

sundown . . .

the unseen and seen,

lacing stars

jumping for

joy, the way we have to

bring a child

into this world . . .

drinking margaritas

her spirit . . .

a dove nesting

in clouds

i let you

be the whore tonight

like we wanted . . .

we kid ourselves thinking

God'll reward us

over now . . .

the curtsy of a

budding rose

they treated me

like a god, breathing

psalms into

the the lungs of bargirls

for ten dollars a night

a next time?

hundreds of black spiders

laying eggs

flurescent . . .

the in-coming tide

dances with

the shoreline like

a long lost lover

you set out

to do a job but . . .

feeeeeelings

the look

on the teacher's face . . .

at the bible

college when i skate

boarded down the hall!

coy smile . . .

the loves the way deer

sniff her limbs

become one

with me for an hour

and the world

around you, swallowed

by sea monsters!

yesterday . . .

the mute song of leaves

worries me

30 minutes

into intercourse, you

stop to pee . . .

and dont, your chores

the greater feeling

the unsaid . . .

how to use it

in a lie?

we share the

same dream,bayawak . . .

staring through

rusted bars at

granite buddhas

the unsaid . . .

buddha doesn't hear

a man's tears

what can live

in this green brown

water creek . . .

an old woman's

memories?

those eyes . . .

disappointment,

a fall leaf

her baby

on another island waits

for her to

take him home after

the final pedicure

the clash

of wind, the fading

of flowers

deep inside

maria's chest,

a poem

waiting for someone

she'll never see

you woke up,

Maria. A bad dream?

one cloud

can we

adopt a bar girl's

phil/am child?

pretend i'm the father

dancing with dugongs

will you hate

me for the blossoms

you can't have?

she said she'd

try once to bare

the child

we want but can't . . .

damned tubligation!

vigilant,

the trash collector . . .

thinking rice

having been

to hell without a

way out,

i don't always

think too clearly

robert d. wilson

©2009

December 4, 2009

The other day, my publisher informed me that my book, Jack Fruit Moon, was nominated for the prestigious Pushcart Prize. I was happy, even though none of us who writes books of haiku

tanka, haiga, and other forms of Japanese short form poetry get rich, even in Japan.

Yes, one writer (Tawara Machi) sold over six million copies, has her own agent, and television show . . . She had something to say at the right time and it caught on. In Japan, school children are taught to appreciate, understand, and write tanka and haiku; a far cry from the crap taught

to most North American students. Japanese students are taught to memorize and recite famous poems, and to understand the aesthetics indigenous to haiku. Thank God for on and off-line literary journals, haiku workshops, and the access the internet gives to those wanting to study Japanese short form poetry in depth. Unfortunately, few people read the journals, participate in workshops, and take the genres seriously. Those who do are a minute segment of the North American biosphere, which is a polite way of saying none of us have the influence we'd like to have, save for the members of this or that . . .

I'm an enigma, a loner, and hate to attend meetings and play politics with the wannabe heroes of the micro mini North American universe, the co-owners of Ego Land (Not to be confused with Lego Land).

I've felt bullets whiz by me like gnats singing the Star Spangled Banner, watched blood spurt out of human beings, saw burn marks on the backs of woman who worked on our base, smoked opium, overdosed more than once on this and that, doing everything possible tofool m lay my mind, laid in a pool of vomit, done the unspeakable, was a Debalo, Boy Scout, 2nd baseman, drifted to hell and back (God bless Vietnam), organized anti war rallies, got saved, unsaved, re-saved, and hurt by a lot of mean people, I couldn't give a damn about having my name in the Who's Who, which anyone can be listed in for a price. I'm building new sections in the Wonderland Amusement Park, rides that'll blow your jets, if you have any, or give you irritable bowel syndrome. Nothing's as it seems, our minds refuse to pass go and collect $200, jail a corner in a monopoly game, our synapses exploding into a thousands stars without maps.

We're not clones burping, farting, playing Peter Pan, guzzling the same brand of beer served by Stepford Wives. I am me, you are you, a modern art splatter painting on display illegally in a rich man's house, and no one the wiser.

ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!

They gave up

waiting for my

weekly calls . . .

the children I wanted

but couldn't have

i pass a

guard working 12 hours . . .

breast cancer

she wont' tell

me the reason she waddles

through the trash . . .

her conscience riding a

store front merry-o-ground

morning rain . . .

absorbing our dog's

faint yelps

how can i

understand the breath

of one who

plows the heavens with

uneasiness?

lost, the moon

stumbles through winter . . .

thinking

breaking

water, an empty stare . . .

the end to

a surreal walk

through wonderland

the stars . . .

each of them a voice

i can't hear

can she be

a whore for a couple

nights, folding

clouds into

a newborn baby?

burning trash . . .

winter, an egret

without wings

every night

i watch pirated

movies . . .

drinking margaritas

with stuffed animals

a puppet

under the foot bridge . . ..

melting snow

a voice,

nothing more, the

wind

sculpting mountains

into forget-me-nots

she stopped

waiting for snow. . .

and santa

lay beside

me tonight, blanketed

in skin . . .

watching action movies

in buddha's belly

mimic! your

dance, dawn, the same

as dusk

short lived, the

the memories

we exchanged

in puberty, living

in robert crumb's brain

her eyes, a

television channel

singing winter

it is

difficult to

ascertain

the when and where

when time's endless

almost dawn . . .

a full moon that

doesn't stir

the smile on

your face reminds me

of a teen

planning the first

of many dates

bananas . . .

smaller ones are

the sweetest

she plays coy

at the the mall

with me . . .

knowing all the men

are staring at her

poor frog . . .

jumps into a fry pan

forged in spring

i thought

she dressed sexy

for me . . .

an unstable wind

pushing limits

feigning fear,

the smell of

incense

today could

pivot us into

a frontier

beyond the synaptic

grasp of too much

eyes, whispers

a gaggle of bamboo

sans water

promise me

anything, kano . . .

i'll leave

of the nightly dance

of rats on my roof

ox, a year's

named after you . . .

then what?

through you, a

time capsule hurled

beyond the

yesterday of

no tomorrows

the red flag

waving at me . . .

an omen?

at last,

light beyond the stained

glass smile

of a saint staring

at me through windows

entering

calamba city . . .

quail eggs

if we

didn't want a child . . .

do you think

i'd advise you on

what to say and wear?

high noon . . .

field hands earning a

buck per day

street vendors

tote salted eggs

in baskets . . .

fragile like the

homes they live in

lunch time . . .

rice and a spoonful

of ulam

humid day . . .

the woman in red

carrying

a red umbrella

down a dusty highway

summer

all year around . . .

4th level

two years

ago i walked into

a summer

that taunts my way of

looking at life

alabang . . .

love in chile corn

fed tuna

shanty towns

under billboards

hawking

plastic surgery

and luxury homes

sundown . . .

the seen and unseen

lacing stars

forgive me,

princessa, for the

times i took

you for granted . . .

spinning silk webs

sleeping with

carabao beneath

heaven's river

the crack in

your tin roof, an eye

to the world

pretending you

don't exist

sumpong . . .

the woman walking

sideways

where will she

sleep, the filthy halo

halo

woman staring at

me from her perch?

in her head,

a painting she wants

erased?

what does she

dream, the skinny

dark skinned girl

walking through the

mall of asia?

a dream,

her failure to find

fresh seed?

a world

far removed from

the stars . . .

dancing before mirrors

on pasay boulevard

she sleeps

under a bridge . . .

eating clouds

robert d. wilson

©2009

December 3, 2009

Time flies! Just yesterday I was in the Mekong Delta, wondering if a bullet, rocket, or mortar would have my name on it. 18 years old, fresh out of high school, no counter- insurgency training, no prep, a naive middle class guy, sent almost overnight into the belly of the Dragon. The first night in Nam, like every sailor new in the country, I walked through the main drag in Saigon, a wild toad ride where bargirls were everywhere, grabbing your crotch, putting their blouse over your head (braless, of course), anything to get you into the club they worked in, buy them drinks (saigon tea), and take them to bed. $5 for short-time and $10 for overnight. Away from home, sowing my wild oats,falling for every con in the book, I felt like Hugh Hefner on speed.

A week later, the party ended. I was flown by chopper to my permanent duty station in the heart of the Mekong Delta, a flat bed of rice paddies that looked like a patchwork quilt made of mirrors laced liberally with canals. With the weather averaging 127 degrees F, I felt like Sponge Bob, my uniform drenched with sweat, the gunner I sat next to told me to look for VC (Viet Cong). He told me the average life span of a chopper gunner was 12 minutes if you were being shot at. He never took his hands off of the 50 caliber machine gun, edgy, hyper alert, responsible for the crew aboard the gunship.

I was in a dream inside of a dream, nothing I'd seen or experienced before, and nothing like what I saw on the television newscasts at home. I wasn't watching a glass god eating potato chips, senseless to the feelings those I watched were feeling. The Cheshire Cat met us in Mytho, the city nearest our base, Dong Tam. We were boarded into a truck that drove us through a winding, partially unpaved road, seeing tall palm trees, thatched roof hut villages, and people walk around in silk pajamas and handmade cone shaped bamboo hats, old men with long stringy white beards, bald headed Buddhist monks wearing saffron robes, an occasional motorbike, bicycle, and water buffalo carrying passengers, and rice paddies every where you looked . . . flooded fields of water populated by human arched bridges, picking or planting rice. Oops, I forget to mention I came into the country during the TET Offensive (TET is the Chinese new year), when all hell broke out in Vietnam and the war, which the American government insanely called a POLICE ACTION, escalated 100 fold. Saigon was attacked, VC and members of the North Vietnam regular army, unseen ghosts (your friends during the day, your enemies at night) living in the shadows, underground tunnel cities, and Buddhist temples.

Boom! A sniper out of nowhere shot at our truck. The truck screeched to a halt, how dumb, and we ordered by the NCO in charge to jump out with our M-16 caliber automatic rifles and look for a needle in a haystack. A few minutes later, having not found the needle, we boarded the truck and drove to our new duty station, a dry field, that was once underwater facing a bay connected to the Mytho River via series of canals ten to thirty feet wide, a world of hidden eyes watching our every move. During my first three weeks our base was mortared and/or rocketed seven times a night. So much for sleep. Every incoming mortar getting closer and closer, their loud explosive thuds, sounding like the footsteps of Godzilla. Welcome to what for me became the seeds that built the Wonderland Amusement Park, a mental, all to real place where nothing was what it seemed. And that was only the first three weeks!

Welcome to the mind of Robert D. Wilson, the Wonderland Amusement Park, where

reality is fused with truth, dreams, all too real flashbacks, personal mythology ala William

Blake; Lawrence Ferlinghetti's Coney Island of The Mind with the addition of firefights, napalmed human torches, torture, sleeplessness, access to high grade opium, marijuana, and hashish, a long way from home, in a culture totally foreign to us, not knowing if we'd

live or die.

Ride the rides, feeeeeeeeeeeeeel them, a thousand white owls swooping through darkness,

and please, don't even think of bringing your children.

ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!

They gave up

waiting for my

weekly calls; the

two children I sired,

but couldn't have

a long line

waiting for cheap rice . . .

short nights

she wont' tell

me the reason she waddles

through the trash . . .

her conscience riding a

store front merry-o-ground

morning rain . . .

absorbing our dog's

faint yelps

how can i

understand the breath

of one who

plows the heavens with

uneasiness?

lost, the moon

stumbles through winter . . .

thinking

breaking

water, an empty stare . . .

the end to

a surreal walk

through wonderland

the stars . . .

each of them a voice

i can't hear

can she be

a whore for a couple

nights, folding

clouds into

a newborn baby?

burning trash . . .

winter, an egret

without wings

every night

i watch pirated

movies . . .

drinking margaritas

with stuffed animals

a puppet

under the foot bridge . . ..

mid-winter

a voice,

nothing more, the

wind

sculpting mountains

into forget-me-nots

a small boy . . .

waiting for snow in a

bamboo grove

lay beside

me tonight, blanketed

in skin . . .

watching action movies

in buddha's belly

mimic!

your dance, dawn, the same as

dusk, sans coffee

short lived, the

the memories

we exchanged

in puberty, living

inside robert crumb's brain

her eyes, a

television channel

singing winter

it is

difficult to

ascertain

the when and where

when time has no end

almost dawn . . .

a full moon that

doesn't stir

the smile on

your face reminds me

of a teen

planning the first

of many dates

peach trees . . .

the younger ones

are sweetest

she plays coy

at the the mall

with me . . .

knowing all the men

are staring at her

poor frog . . .

jumps into a fry pan

forged in spring

i thought

she dressed sexy

for me . . .

an unstable wind

pushing limits

feigning fear,

the smell of

incense

today could

pivot us into

a frontier

beyond the synaptic

grasp of too much

eyes, whispers . . .

a gaggle of bamboo

sans water

promise me

anything, kano . . .

i'll leave

the nightly dance

of rats on my roof

ox, a year's

named after you . . .

then what?

robert d. wilson

©2009