a kinsman
to the reeds,
the egret . . .
planted in a
soldier’s ashes
these gnats . . .
how many have wisped by
human bridges?
she whispers to me,
this winter night,
from sallow pools
left on the runway of that
could have been
morning darkness . . .
listening to stuffed
animals sing
i bow to
no one, typhoon, except
to God; a
a jeepney fording across
ash clogged streams
walang typhoon . . .
an old man sucking
shellfish
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
she lured dawn
down a highway lined
with colored lights
daddy said
it was "cool" to
eat dried fish
in the theater watching
samurai movies
before dawn . ..
the melody
of pork fat
dogs lay
beside their own shit
in cages
washed two days ago in
a lazy man's dream
spit me out,
old foe, into
winter's maw
she went to
sleep with empty
captions
above her head and no
one to fill in the blanks
jeepneys . . .
the stop start of
autumn rain
stir with me
the field grass like
a junk
setting sail in
alphabet soup
lite breeze . . .
an ancestor's
gentle urging
late at night
her shadow scalds
the wine her
husband sipped with
a young mistress
the pasig river .. .
times when monkeys
screeched
staring out
the window of
a cheap
hotel at the
pasig river
twilight dawn . . .
i woke up to a
river coughing
dancing leaves . . .
there was a time
when your eyes
told me to wait in
the other room
the moon and
its crinkled face . . .
tired vendors
i saw you
again this morning,
clinging to
rules you have
trouble following
is it morning?
my reflection
growing moss
............
for my son, EJ
one of these
days the horizon
will be
cloudless like the
day i first held you
cockroaches . . .
wait for their share of
the autumn noon
the dance of
maggots beneath
the dragon's
belly, singing yesterday
i felt your breath
sunrise . . .
a carabao
spraying flies
in her bowl
a thousand eyes
pretend
to be a brother
to the carabao
clear water . . .
a leech attached
to my ankle
is that you,
sun, tossing dreams
from the back
door of a jeepney on
its way through the clouds?
under
the water, lovers
catching stars
lazy man!
the vendor's dreams
tied to
a dead weight and . . .
you steal from him
before dawn . . .
shredding fish with a
dry whisper
early autumn . . .
not the storm but
words
pushing clouds into
cherry blossoms
the coarse dreams
of an old soldier . . .
polishing headstones
just a few
tonight, walk up
and down
C. Molina Street . . .
manananggal!
broken rice . . .
a weathered woman
milling autumn
again
the rain in my
dreams
replenish the mirrors
that gave them birth
morning quiet . . .
a dream going through
the loops
what dream?
the sad cry of
the suka
vendor treading
knee deep through water
deep morning . . .
trikes circle the mouth
of a catfish
i tread through
nightmares into
a morning
served to me in
a broken tea cup
follow some-
one else, dragon . . .
autumn leaves
out of the
evening, a star lighting
paths i dared
not dream til now . . .
the caterpiller's cry!
late night . . .
the pasig river
turning tricks
talk to me,
moon, while others
sleep
through dreams painted
on brown paper bags
twilight dawn
a carabao
plowing mirrors
walk with me
into the dragon's bowels;
feel what i
smell, taste what i
hear . . . and BE!
follow some-
one else, dragon . . .
autumn leaves
----------------------------
how I feel?
another damned
illusion?
Basho came and went, writing this and that, careful not to blemish his status
as haiku master, extraordinaire . . . talking about lonely seas and crickets living under helmets with young soldier's dreams . . . kept women, peeing horses, weeping fish . . . and me, centuries later, nothing like the master, the un-xeroxed poet he asked us to be, sitting cross-legged on a 500 foot banana leaf covered with fish scales and gossip scrapped from the heels of wannabe Basho's; bearing a soul only Allen Ginsberg would understand, with his angel headed hipsters and a mother who lived in a world Dali would run from or paint . . .
walls tremble . . .
blushing from the lyrics
sung by god and frog
robert d. wilson
----------------------------
another damned
illusion?
Basho came and went, writing this and that, careful not to blemish his status
as haiku master, extraordinaire . . . talking about lonely seas and crickets living under helmets with young soldier's dreams . . . kept women, peeing horses, weeping fish . . . and me, centuries later, nothing like the master, the un-xeroxed poet he asked us to be, sitting cross-legged on a 500 foot banana leaf covered with fish scales and gossip scrapped from the heels of wannabe Basho's; bearing a soul only Allen Ginsberg would understand, with his angel headed hipsters and a mother who lived in a world Dali would run from or paint . . .
walls tremble . . .
blushing from the lyrics
sung by god and frog
robert d. wilson
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