Deposit # 28

The poetry you see here reflects
over three decades of work. I have
changed over the years as you have.
If you want to see what I write
currently, visit:

I love and appreciate you all.

Robert D. Wilson

Saturday, December 4, 2010

A Lousy Mirror

beneath your
skin, a father
soil with  tears 
he won't show you

oh, to be an
egret passing angels . . . 

these are 
my words, not a
smile dangling in 
front of cowards!

be still . . . 
brother cockroach 
is passing

a peacock
breastfeeding her
baby to
the lullaby
of passing cars

crickets in
bunkers tapping
out psalms

through a sailor's
to the hell dante
wouldn't talk about

   autumn noon . . . 
the rustle of a
carabao's tail

haunted at
night when children
lay in bed
staring at closets
filled with monsters

sunset . . .
holding a soldier's

unable to
sleep, i listen to
for the seventh
time this evening

cloudy night . . . 
sleeping with a
restless moon

the same 
words above your
head in a
caption borrowed
from my ex-wife

she leaps into
the milk fish's mouth . . . 
with a candle

the stench of 
dragons, the drone 
of locusts, 
a laborer bowing
to mirrors

morning quiet . . . 
the field holds
its breath

this river
will never sing like
the ganges . . . 
her quiet sold to
the highest bidder

listening . . .
a gnats whispers 
between breaths

dancing nude 
with guys who want 
to be girls
at the wonderland
amusement park

gray skies . . .
she takes her time
. . . undressing

eden passed
me today on her
way to the
airport to catch a
a flight to america

sultry night . . . 
rockets whistle
at me!

let pigs fly!
i'm tired of playing
house with you
in a castle
made of wheat straw

gray skies . . .
sipping coke zero in a
videoke bar

my inner
child hangs from 
a rubber 
tree in vietnam
singing, "that's all"

early morning . . . 
stars sip moonlight
with the boys

those eyes!
a television set
old movies in
a cheap motel

summer storm . . .
an old rat lights

ulam and 
rice; a worn out
moon sings
karaoke over
the pasig river

sell peanuts 
to no one's child,
don't pass go,
wade through your own
vomit and . . . SMILE!

mowed grass . . .
a half naked boy
digging sand

what will the
dead man say when
his house is
torn down to make
room for the living?

full moon . . . 
a prisoner peeing

  a cockroach
talks to me in
the dream i
had last night . . .
waiting for the scalpel

the naked 
boy with a hair-lip
. . . and rain

does he dream,
the beggar on 
the busy 
sidewalk sleeping with
an out-stretched cup?

a couple
stretching shadows
into dawn

only the
waterfall in
my mind
sings to me when
jeepneys drone

after dark . . . 
a beggar changing

the old
woman selling
dried fish
swats flies with
a make-shift moon

in the highway,
selling cigarettes . . .
one at a time

(for my daughter, krissy)

at the dock
wondering what 
to do with
the line mooring
what's left of her

those eyes . . . 
pools of thought playing
with fire

chastity . . . 
the gray skies of 
lighting incense
to cloud buddhas

the pond is
. . . whispering

bow in the field
to clouds 
on their way to
the palengke

      autumn morning . . . 
a pond moving

reflection at 
dawn . . .
pushing clouds
into dog shaped huts

a gray-eyed 
woman weaves herself
into autumn

      autumn rain . . .
father followed
of incense through 
paper lanterns

milk fish asked
me if he could eat
her shadow

walang cafe . . . 
i sent them home
in paper 
jeepneys lit with
votive candles

this evening,
like all the others . . . 

in the
quiet between
stars, the child
with a hair-lip
gulping darkness

sitting at
an empty table . . . 
the fish seller

our house guest
stares at me through a 
crack in the 
wall like the villagers
of south vietnam

twilight dawn . . . 
a pod of shadows
cross stitch clouds

an add-free
promise behind 
curtain, dangling
from her nose ring

twilight . . .
wading through a
frog's belly

behind her 
smile, a child watching
the same
video over
and over and . . .

twilight . . . 
a tadpole swimming

darkness . . . 
wondering what to
do with thoughts
parading through 
me into walls

that tree
without leaves . . . 
heavy rain

friends beg
me to come back
it's too late, my
vomit chanting tantras

turtle . . . 
your shell a sanctuary
made of stars

she glares at
me as if the world
is her lair
and lions have 
every right to roar 

nightfall . . .
the same old
bowl of rice

i bow to
no one, typhoon, except
to God; a 
a jeepney fording across
ash clogged streams 

walang typhoon . . . 
an old man sucking

 is he
senile, the old
man talking
to stuffed  animals
or . . . married?

late autumn . . . 
chancing wetness
with a kiss

she stood 
in front of the
kitchen sink 
shuffling leaves like 
an old west card shark 

robert d. wilson

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