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Friday, May 12, 2017

History in Retrograde

Those who fail to study history might do it again.”--William Pocorny Stareclough, 14th century British Philosopher

((General Washington's Press Secretary enters the tent.))

Good afternoon.
Yes, General Washington
will be going to Mount Vernon
again this weekend with his entourage.
We know this because
the slaves are already
clipping the grass while measuring
with rulers.
You know the future
father of our country
likes to hit boiled eggs
around the lawns with sticks.
Is he crazy? What an insulting question.
Next. There is no truth to the rumor
that Mary Washington is selling
Florida property to rich Brits.
We're not really at war with the Brits,
just call it an alternative peace.
We're all Brits until otherwise noted.
No, the Washingtons don't call
Mount Vernon “Mar-y-Languishes”
The colonial press pool will not be able
to go in the future president's wagon train
as there are many semaphore technicians
who have to be strung out
across the landscape
to keep The General in touch
with New York, Boston, and Philly.
Once in Mount Vernon
you'll each have two minutes
to file your stories.
I'm sorry to those from Chicago
and Phoenix,
you're not even cities, yet,
and well, we just don't have
a connection that far.
Yes, the future president
has promised to drain the swamp
but as you know
the Frenchie city designer
is falling behind with his drawings
for GeorgeTheThirdTown.
The General has ranted about that
in the dark of night to his cat, Tweets.
Next, Benjamin Franklin will meet the General
in Mount Vernon
to discuss his nutball idea
that one day lightning
will be used to send messages
on strings between cities.
There's your crazy person.
Oh, before he leaves,
The General is meeting
with the British ambassador
in the oval tent.
Only Brit press will be allowed in.
I guess they're discussing
something called
the Delaware Crossing Project
with the painters already
creating the picture
of the defeat
which you'll have copies
in your alternative history books
in about 200 years or so.
God Save The King.



Barry G. Wick


Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Nothing to See Here


For an atheist
I sure pray more than necessary
It doesn't appear to be
hedging my bets
It is just that all this space
seems to be something worth
chatting with
from time to time
I've already had the best answers
from the Universe
because it seems
that the creation's message
has been around
for us to discover
We don't seem to be heeding
that message
Science discoveries are wonderful
but the basic human messages
don't seem to be getting through
so I suspect
that we're gonna go down
the extinction trail
like other populations
of this or that animal or being
Hey Universe
just leave the bunnies
they're so cute


Barry G. Wick



Tuesday, May 9, 2017

On the Porch


A light breeze on a Monday evening
that sees the first fireflies
neighbor raccoons and rabbits
cross freshly mowed grass
that's mostly weeds of all kinds
as flashes from storms
to the northwest try to keep up
with Lester Young on saxophone
and those he played with
springing beats on the night
Buddy Rich on drums
Nat Cole on piano
even in the thirties
of the 20th century
Oh, he was before my awareness
though his time extends into this era
because of all the recordings
with the greatest cats of forty years
in a blessing beyond the ability
of all religious texts to comfort
with these rolling lines of sax notes
that suspend the night
with applause that I want to join
only to change my mind since
it's past ten in the night
past times when
Billie Holiday and Lester Young
Prez and Lady Day
played in '57 on CBS
died within months of each other
her broken heart
they're rotting livers
when I was seven in '59
in my house not interested in jazz
with parents who probably
could not remember their names
I'm on a porch keeping them alive



Barry G. Wick




Monday, May 8, 2017

The Revolt of the Unwritten Poems


In the darkest memories
where everything seems just vision
in the time before before birth
when everything is explained
to any soul that would become a being
where the simplest instructions
of breathing or sensations
are taught in unstructured classes
where choices are made
for parents and siblings
where basic mistakes
are explained in depth
only to be wiped away
by the complexities of birth itself
now many years later
a protest begins
deep in a confused and tortured mind

here
the unwritten poems
march down the rugged paths
of expectional creation
only to be tossed away
when washing the dishes
or sitting in the doctor's office
reading a year old magazine
that leans in an odd direction
of travel to places
that are too expensive
for a common poet to attain

These poems have been sitting
in the dark of a mental fog
more poisonous than any
from Sherlock's London
or Beijing just yesterday
They plot their revolt
complete with Eisensteinian stairways
upon which a mutha-writer screams
for his baby rolling down stairs
in its black and white pram
while throngs of angry poems
are shot by royalist soldiers
whose fingers refuse to touch
a keyboard or pick up a pen

There were no instructions
on how to deal with these poems
and so they sit in the darkness
building their anarchistic bombs
that are set to explode
as the first thoughts of day
push aside the dreams of sleep
There is no inner police force
equipped to investigate
these piles of uncreated angers
that may only have one bang-up image
or an ill-formed title
that now hangs in the air
for it to breathe the horrors
much like those perfumed garbage bags
from the local crapateria
that stink a kitchen
where poets do their dishes
and destroy the beginnings of poems
unable to make their Tarkovskian births

It should be noted
that references to Russian film directors
is only provided to confuse the reader
and are not based
upon any real understanding by this poet
They are an attempt to make him appear
educated and wise in the ways
of poetic imagery
In other words, careful, this poet
might be a poseur
who can't write his way
out of a trite and smelly plastic bag

Sshhhhh, they turn the corner
holding their blank signs
ready for David Lean's Zhivago
to witness the sabers slashing
unformed poems
who only seek bread
and something
else now forgotten like justice
peace
love
and stuff from the crapateria


Barry G. Wick