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Friday, July 31, 2009
Heironymous Bosch comes to visit from Chicago. We drink. I'm tipsy.
He paints the friends I used to know. The devil in a dead tree with death playing a lute. A barrel runs on two legs tempting me with brew. The city burns in the background. Lake Michigan with asses hanging out over the side of a boat smiling at the gay sun worshipers on The Rocks at the end of Belmont Avenue, their pale horses drinking from the lake.
Plates of bloody food. human-headed birds, and scarlet women. Probably drag queens from North Halsted Street.
I suspect I am the monk reading from the book in the center of the scene. I am praying for all of this to go away or wanting to join in the orgy of delights and kept away by a painful conscience. All the rest die except me or am I already dead upon my knees refusing to live life to its fullest.
Go away, Mr. Bosch and leave my city memories behind like years of cracked varnish on an old painting.
You know too much about me, dear Heironymous, and now you've told everyone about me and how my life was lived on my knees in a cloak my walking stick ready to support my last walk through a world of sorrows.
Barry G. Wick worked for many years in the broadcasting and advertising industry. A native of The Black Hills, he retired to Coralville, Iowa next to Iowa City in 2014. He writes poetry and some fiction. Most everything he's ever written is unpublished. This writer's poems are available to the whole world free of charge though your gifts are welcome.