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Friday, May 29, 2015

On the Edge



The sound of fresh coffee
the odor of jazz
smokey noise scratches
somewhere in the background
a fan perhaps
inside is full of clouds
that threaten rain and mayhem
outside the sun hides
beneath a pile of blue rocks
yet to throw off sheets of light

It's a marginal morning
when only a loincloth
keeps the level of decency
primitive just above
a reptilian image
on the back of eyes
still unused to multiple lids
where movement is the only
assurance of protection
animalia in procession

Rise oh useless human male
a cause for this sensation
lies just around the May pole
from reasonable badgers
who begin their infiltration
juggling words in defiance
of all earthly order and meaning
pressed into service
before a measured phrase
unveils itself at computer speed



Barry G. Wick


Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Unnamed


News has reached the world
that an unnamed island nation's citizens
have supported the right
of some disenfranchised couples
to marry

Up pops an unnamed official source
from an opposing organization
who says
this was
a great loss for humanity

As tongues poke through
lips around the world
air is forced over the tongue
causing a ripple
of the upper and lower lips
named after a bush fruit
often red or black
unnamed for this report




Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Sometimes

It's the kind feeling
that any writer gets
if he's got a few muses
that don't seem to put
much effort into their jobs,
kinda like the writer himself
who can't seem to get
off the sofa and go back to work.

He'll come across a piece of writing
that'll simply blows the doors
out of the walls he's built
to keep himself from being successful.

Yeah, that kind of writing.

So all of a sudden he realizes
that's he's never been
entirely grateful
to the muses he does have.
He's got to say thank you
for even the crappiest writing
he's ever done
because somewhere,
sometime,
someone will find something
he's written that'll blow the doors
out of the walls
of some other writer
who is going through
a crisis of muses.
He'll spend part of his day
thinking how he'd like
to write better
and then he's reminded
that he couldn't give up
the muses he does have
for the ones he doesn't know.

They'd be strangers.
Damn strangers running
around in his head
tapping words he's forgotten
to play with for awhile.
Some of those words
wouldn't fit into any keyhole
of the locks in the doors
now laying on the floor.

So, with a grateful heart
he picks up the doors
to rehang on the frames
that've been damaged.
Get out the screw driver,
the hammer, the chisel,
and the drill.
It's time to go to work
and quit laying
on the sofa
thinking the typer
will put those unfamiliar
words to work,
when the old, comfortable ones
from the muses he knows
will do.

The project will be a mix
of the old and the new.
Adding a muse will mean
finding some new colors
with which to paint
the repaired doors.
How about cerulean.
It's a color word
he's never used
from his new muse.
The old muses are scratching
their beards the way
old men who've let themselves go
stare into oblivion
thinking about something
they've never encountered.
OK, they say, we'll run with it.
The writer pauses to thank
his small committee of helpers
then proceeds to pelt his page
with bravado.
Please people, he writes,
the color was fine, but must
we be celebrating with bravado?
Stuttering, the new muses
and the old muses begin
their next moments
with an “uh, uh, uh!?”
in a combined chorus
that gives the writer
a chance to think
about his next move.
Okay, thank you, thank you,
we're bound to find out
the next phase
sometime.



Barry G. Wick