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Thank you to those who support me via my Paypal account: rikwrybac@yahoo.com. Please consider sending one, two, three, or more dollars a month. I consider myself a "third industrial revolution" poet. My current income is just $1039.00 a month. I receive SNAP and energy assistance. I wish I didn't have to ask the government for help. The government doesn't read my poetry. You do. Out of over 350 poems here on this blog by me, I hope you find one or more you like. It's why I'm asking you for help. Thank you if you can help me monthly.

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Sunday, July 22, 2018

'Note to Poet "J.G"

Thank you for sharing your poem "Speaking to Imagination" with me the other day.  More importantly for me is that I have met one of my readers.  I'm truly honored.
Your poem is directed at your imagination.  For some writers the imagination is one of the muses:

  "Here again, Calliope (epic poetry) carries a writing tablet; Clio (history) carries a scroll and books; Euterpe (song and elegiac poetry) carries a flute, the aulos; Erato (lyric poetry) is often seen with a lyre and a crown of roses; Melpomene (tragedy) is often seen with a tragic mask;Polyhymnia (sacred poetry) is ...."from Wikipedia

This quite a group of powerful muses.  If this group of muses is to whom you are speaking then heed my warning.  Respect them ad nauseum.  Telling them that you are the "...King." is tantamount to insurrection...or insult.  
Love them.  Stroke them.  They give poets powerful words and ideas.  I am in love with all of them despite their jealousies with each other over me.  Juggling my attentions on them is done with great difficulty.  I often start to write something and find I am hearing an argument over which muse is going to help me complete the project. Some learned people think I am just hearing voices in my head.  It's an awful thing when I am in the library on the computer, listening to music on the internet,  writing something and suddenly, I hear a bunch of women screaming in my headphones.  Then, I launch into often loud conversation trying to calm a group of arguing muses.  These "ladies" are giving me a bad reputation here.  It's all very strange for a gay man to hear women in his ears arguing with each other.  People don't believe I hear these things.   After a few minutes they discover that they have embarrassed me.  There are no apologies.  There are clear thoughts filled with the words I need to complete something under the fingers typing on the computer.  Now, they've gone quiet.  They aren't speaking to me because I am writing about them.  My dears, I am so sorry, but I have to get another writer to respect your voices...to respect my dear sweet ladies who often ramble through my head like a hundred St. Bernards in search of a lost skier.  So even though you have gone silent because of my words to this potentially fine writer, I know I shall hear your singing once again.  So, J.G., you did have my attention and I hope this note is an explanation of my viewpoint that surrounds your poem.  Please write some more for me and I hope to see you again soon.   Your devoted reader, Barry.

On the Moon

On The Moon

I'm here
I'm not running out
of anything important
like air food or water
This is the crater
I live in
It's a two bath
three bedroom crater
with a well appointed kitchen
with enough rocks
to pay monthly crater rent
To be honest
I don't know
who gets the rocks
I sew my own spacesuits
but they leak
so I don't spend time
looking for junk
that falls from the sky
The parts I've collected
make a nice porch
that beeps every
fifteen minutes
It's annoying
but at least
it keeps me company

The internet is helpful
at the crater three miles away
where the Russians lost
a load of books
or was that the Germans
who didn't want to burn them
I just hope my moon buggy
gets me there in the coming years

The moon is gray
Music I listen to
comes from the rainbow
Now I hear Etta James
“Stormy Weather”
over and over
“It's keep rainin'
all the time.”
but that's the moon
in the summertime
James P. Johnson
at the keyboard
“Snowy Morning Blues”
All I have here
are micrometeorites.

The government
sends a supply ship
every month on the third
Supplies mostly run out
by the tenth
so I have to be careful
until the next ship arrives

Mahalia Jackson sings
“Just a Closer Walk with Thee”
On the moon
it's just a closer skip and hop
with thee
but everything on the moon
is far away

I've been to the dark side
That's usually the last
three of four days of the month
or after I visit the doctor
with all the gadgets
I hook up to me
so she can tell
if I'm gonna be around
for the next supply ship

Louis just walked on stage
with Mahalia
The applause won't stop
Now he's singin' with her
I'm foggin' up my helmet visor
A closer walk with the saints
that come marching in
leaving footprints in the dust

That's it from here
on the moon...wait
Louis now sings
“Mack the Knife”
Who'd have thought
Satchmo
would have made a hit
by the Germans
lyricist Bertolt Brecht
and composer Kurt Weill
But then Americans
landed on the moon
thanks to a German designer
of big rockets
named Wernher Magnus
Maximilian von Braun
member of that political party
he said magically appeared
on top of him
Eventually everything
comes from Germany
even the political system
now infecting
my former homeland
I might be the only
person on the moon
but I've designed
a political system
that nobody can beat
It's called “Just-me-ism”
I leave everybody alone
and everybody leaves me alone
It only catches on
when you're old
queer
a complete outcast
from family and
all of the world
that's impossible to walk to
when using a walker

Stanley Jordan plays
“Willow Weep for Me”

Where's a willow
when you want one
It doesn't help
if you live on the moon
I'm not feeling sorry
I just feel the rocks in my....
ssshhhhhhhhh
this is a family crater

Barry G. Wick

Thursday, July 12, 2018

News Flashes


A power outage drives me to my porch
with three improvised lighted torches
made from empty jam jars
with punctured metal lids through which
the wicks of rolled and sewn gauze peek
The fuel gives off smoke to keep bugs at bay
Several moths go down in flames
their last flutters within feet of me
Moths are a disorganized lot
unlike their bug cousins:  the fireflies
They form a flying message
Hundreds of fireflies linked together
above the darkened lawn in the trees
behind my home
It's almost as if a neon sign
glides over this tender scene of loneliness
Where they have learned this word
is anyone's guess
yet here they are flying in formation
presenting their request
to any bug or person
who will read
or answer their request
This strange ghostly flight
of a word has me in tears
because I know how they feel
how lonely these gentle insects
who have joined arms in protest
to tell the world
their great need for what
their message glows
in the star-filled sky
three letters that make up
one word
powered by thousands of wings
soundless in their presentation
to explain their intimate desires
I cannot help them
except to beg them to stay away
from the flames that illuminate
my bare feet to my head
Here they are
far from my three breeze-twisted flames
their three letters
flickering now
every two seconds
S-E-X
S-E-X
S-E-X
damn, I love Iowa

Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

The Long Train of Suffering

Jesus was a beggar
who invested his income
He didn't make his fortune
in his father's
furniture shop
He kept the government
from taxing his capital gains
made on the goat market
by using an offshore account
It's the Christian thing to do

Won't everybody be surprised
when they have to take their turn
as Jesus in another life
Your reincarnation
only with a different body
is surrounded by the tools
of cruelty and crucifixion
Somewhere in that limbo
the cross
now forged titanium
will have been recycled
through the many lives
that have to go through
government sponsored torture

For that time
some disfavored race
will sit on the sidelines
with rating cards
ranging from zero point zero
to ten
How well did this Jesus suffer?
Six point seven
The audience applauds
Someone yells that
the judges needed to raise
the decision
Apostles are never satisfied
Those judges were Dyacks
from Borneo
who will now have to be
persecuted and wander for centuries
because they killed this Jesus
They didn't really
It just makes them the best
loincloth tailors and rag merchants
in the next history

The tomb is a refrigerated morgue
Some Mary will march
through the doors
with an entourage
in her furs and jewels
Including a blonde bimbo
they call The Mag
only to find the bin
empty
Now how did he open it
Oh yes it's magic
The auditorium is silent
when the announcer
taps the mic
It's “Jesus starring in
'Houdini on Ice'”

This Jesus runs around
showing everybody his holes
entrance wounds made with lasers
so he can be hung on the pegs
No more of those pointy spikes

See
this Jesus says
boy was that a trip

Jesus rises to heaven
since by this time
anti-gravity is as simple
as healing the sick
The Apostles split up
This show is over
The audience is restless
for the next Jesus
Next!?!

Okay kid
get some Apostles together
No you can't use the ones
the previous Jesus used
Their off writing their memoirs
starting churches
Some will be such a pain
in the ass
they'll be crucified
It's a tough world kid
but you can do it
Now start pitching
that stuff
being about
your father's business
Oh insurance
That'll make an interesting
chapter in a new testament

Risk assessment
how to avoid being
the next Jesus

I can tell you this kid
You're gonna wind up
on a cross
No two ways about it
There are benefits
This time you don't
have to drag it through
the streets
like the first Jesus
The whole thing
has been simplified
They just hang you
on the pegs
You die
save the world
and go to heaven
easy peasy


Barry G. Wick