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Sunday, August 27, 2017

The New Playground---(from a poem written circa 1991-1993)


41 nearer to 42
shouldn't it be a time of riches
life begins at
and such, oh my how we dream
instead of-watching, waiting,
active verbs
do, jump, take, glow, bake.
Every thought is past, was,
saw the, had the, been the, write the.
Future is barely tomorrow
and mostly today
full of its forwarding-time-expireds
and envelopes of unseen cause words.

All becomes regret on the wrong
waterbed sheets in the drier
coin-op yearnings of pianos
and muted trumpets
sack the drummer and get a driver.

nails takin' on the look of fear
with thin edges and yellow stain
above the canyons above the keys
to underlocked doors behind secrets
in the hallway to see-through stairs
and chance harumphs or 'llos
from ghostbers, on Ron with a set
of polished treads that wax he sees
on Amazing something burns the flame
not the finish.

Ha'ld a zillion seconds of potry
ago with Inkpen, Sharat, Dennis clayman,
gists of words inside me like
cavemen eat lunch at the diner in my head
and somesuch gone now
into unemployment checks and angry daughters
on the phone with 700 Club boyfriends
who turn queer dads into the new jigaboos.

Yeah, that's it, resolution of solos
to theses with illogical endings filled
with 9ths and 11ths and fading to silence.



Barry G. Wick

a poem written circa 1992 or 1993

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