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Thursday, March 3, 2016

Start Writing A Journal says the Great Thompson



Am I suppose to make money?
Getting fat in my old age
living off the writing of my youth
from books that are supposed
to mean something important
touted in college and workshops

In his grave
Jackson Pollock is getting fat
from his drips and drizzles
that are still beyond
what the boys understand
in South Dakota

Maybe tomorrow I will write something
that will become resilient
just enough that I shall be quoted
fawned upon by the poet world
flashes of green everywhere
the gold glitterati jamming
my hands with wrapped stacks
of fifties and hundreds
of which I want nothing
though gracious I shall be
if only to wonder
if this was the reason
I started writing in the first place

Words set on paper were
ordered by The Great Thompson
a high school teacher
have been shredded out of fear
that my real youth will be
pawed upon by librarians
tickled by researchers
for the one lump of diamond language
that made my Rolls Royce lifestyle
part the streets
much as Heston stood
waiting for the special effects people
to make the Red Sea awe the audience

Awe I said granting grace to a special moment
awe I said perfecting the visual ques
from which I have established
the reasonable respect
that only a Russian sized yacht will do
dragging bags of euros behind my walker
silver with gold highlights
acanthus leaves grace its columns
steadying my trudge along the decks

oh yes Sir with love
I shall pounce upon the magnificent language
is if to capture the Spanish vaults
of Inca gold with every letter
separated by heraldic commas
only dreamed of by Oxford dons
who shall call for Henri Cartier-Bresson
to gild me with his Leica
so that The Saints
will question their gold leaf book

I am later entombed in Pere Lachaise
in a space bulldozed by naked men
with their enormous penises
to lay me beside Great Oscar in his sleep

Little did they all know
I was happiest with barely enough
to get to next month
in the golden sun of Iowa
in my finest flannel loincloth
blazing white in kitchen light
set-off neatly by an orange couture t-shirt
dripping urine back and forth
through my trailer
golden poems shaping each drop

damn I need to go now



Barry G. Wick





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