Shrine

Shrine

Behold!  This Shrine to me!

Put your hands together

As if praying to a deity

For I am something

I'm still working on, what?

But here's the Shrine anyway

It has been made

Of the rarest stone

In this country:

The Stone cut from

Mount Rushmore

Oh I'm not on the mountain

I just acquired the largest pieces

Of the rock fall

From the blasting

Think about it.

Some from Lincoln

Some from Roosevelt 

Some from Jefferson

Some from Washington

Pieces

All shipped to my crew

In Iowa

It's a shame it's been wasted

All these years

Assembled into this Shrine:

Tall columns

Looking like quilts of stone,

Glue dripping to their bases.

Every 10 or 15 feet:

A squished chipmunk.

I'll have a chat with the foreman.

Oh, but this holy place

Where I'd seen all this stone

Just laying below this ugliness

As a child growing into adult

More than once a year

We'd traipse as family 

With visiting, uninitiated guests

Unto the American “holy of holies”

Re-endoctrinating ourselves 

In the hatred of the poor,

Marginalized, former owners

Of this destruction

Honoring ongoing destructions

Of societies everywhere else.

In the name of our god

We praised these idols

And our god shook his finger

At us saying:

“Look, I published some stones

You've read about, and well,

You're not going along

With the program, commandment-wise."

So, as long as some of this mountain

Was wasted by a racist carver

What the heck, I'll use it.

Look.  Statues of great Lakota, Hunkpapa, Oglala, Miniconjou, Sans Arc, Blackfeet, Two Kettles, Brulé, Northern Cheyenne, and Arapaho

Chiefs who pincushioned Custer

And his merry band.

All surrounding this Shrine,

Where inside written in stone,

is my apology to native kids

I did not befriend in school:

Among others I rejected

As lovers.

This poem does not solve

My problem

Or THE problem. 

It just states the obvious,

Among which

Are soldiers who received

The Medal of Dishonor

At the massacre 

Of Wounded Knee,

Natives beaten, killed, or disrespected

By Rapid City Police,

South Dakota State Police,

Every white politician of the town,

And state including

Governors Bill fucking Janklow

And the last female mess.

There.

Now, I feel wonderfully relieved

Like a good, useless liberal.

Oh, there's a mouse-sized

Statue of Donald Trump

Carved out of buffalo patty

Coming out of his hole

In a non-conspicuous corner.

A tiny sign announcing

His presence:

“Here comes the Coward”

And everything the Epstein files

Have to say

On a flash drive jammed

In his tiny mouth.

Barry G. Wick

https://agereasonmistake.blodspot.com

Paypal: rikwrybac@yahoo.com 

Truest Evil

Truest Evil

Waking, as we must,

To my own reality,

The mirror reflects a sadness

In the face of my own evil.

How, at times, I rejected love

From this man and that man,

This woman and these children.

There is nothing more evil

Than these negative actions.

Part of this story

in understandings' wake,

Is how I poisoned myself

With food, with alcohol, with sex

That proved no love to me.

I still desired this expensive life

Where all was needed

Became acceptance of my soul,

Which is truth to every person.

Now, I try to find amends

With each person where none

Betrays the folly of my quest.

Some victims killed themselves

Or cried until the tear-soaked sheets

Took days to dry,

Just as my own became a desert.

So, I am left befuddled as a liar

Who cannot find his way

Into a story that saves himself.

From his own awakening

Of self-induced harm,

That others now see,

At distances they keep,

Protecting themselves

From whose false betrayals

They might, themselves, experience.

Barry G. Wick

https://agereasonmistake.blogspot.com

Paypal:  rikwrybac@yahoo.com 

Complication

Complication

The second  awakenings

From the first birth sleep

The world is strange

Without the language to make it mean

The only communication is scream

Someone solves the pain

Or doesn't

Clothing with buttons or pins

Then language

Spoken the written

Full of rules

At each step into work and money

See and relations

Now computers and legality

Fears of loss and strangers

Then imagination turns simple

Throw these away

The rich get it all done

Including tents set up

At Burning Man

Then home to yachts

Or mansions

Then age sets in

Time for something simple

A basic roof with quiet

Books not glowing screens

Escape 

Into a wilderness of thought

A private stream of clear consciousness

Just before breakfast

Wishing the world

Would let you summer walk outside

In just a loincloth

Without calling the cops

Barry G. Wick

http://agereasonmistake.blogspot.com

Paypal: rikwrybac@yahoo.com 

The Shine

The Shine

There in the shower

Standing with glimmering droplets

Caressing your body

As they fall into rivers

And oceans

Perhaps you are the reverent 

Young man in the red loincloth

Hands clasp in prayer

Standing in the Ganges

He hears only the drone

Of the river as his mind

Sings Shanti

His long hair vibrating

In the pluck of the sitar

Then I see the light wave to me

From the surface of a stream

As it transforms into the wet skin

Below your back

The droplets of my desire

To reach out

Then to stop myself

As I always have

Denied myself love

Accepting only shame and guilt

This pattern is a ringing bell

From inside the shrine

Of my empty arms

Hear this prayer

As I stand in your waters

Let me find you always

In my emptiness

In your emptiness

As my hair falls 

Down my neck 

Standing in the thunder

Of a million storms

And the flashes

Of my body's lightning

Barry G. Wick

https://agereasonmistake.blogspot.com

Over 600 poems from the last 18 years

Paypal: rikwrybac@yahoo.com 

Irrelvant

Irrelevant

We are here on the typer

That Bukowski mentions

Except mine is a bit more

Technology

Technology

Technology

I also don’t drink like I used to drink 

At every bar

Or like Bukowski

I suppose it’s a shame

I have no chemical inspiration

And no doubt

Your notice of my bad poetry

I have to write

I have to communicate 

Anything to the universe

And uninspired on every level

Something artificial could

Do better

But that's not me

I breathe and I

Think with flesh

You may dispute that

You have my permission

There is jazz music in the background

That's inspiration from the 1950s and 1960s

Which means I'm not relevant

I get that

On this yellow checkered table cloth

Beneath a ceiling fan

Salt peanuts

Salt peanuts

Thank you Dizzy

Barry G. Wick

The Limited Life

The Limited Life

It was a Life Magazine

From June of 1964

Governor Scranton on the cover

The article about homosexuals

That opened my eyes

And closed my life

I am 12 years old

I know I am different

I could be arrested

Shame my family

This founded my thoughts

For years

Even in college I couldn't

Tell my student shrink

Who and what I was

On days the gay group

Met at a religious house

On campus

I'd walk outside back and forth

Until the fall of 1972

Following a summer

At a cabin with Mike

Just one week of love

And discovery

Stonewall never made the news

In my hometown

Even with my college experiences

Falling in love and rejecting it

Denial upon denial

Hurting others for years

Hurting those who loved me

Wanting acceptance

Wanting real love

Now comes the loneliness 

Of old age

Alone nearer the end

A heart

Still full of shame

No one to talk to

No one to love

Just words to others

Just words

My children could never

Understand this emptiness

Or at least

I hope not

But for some of them

I'm nothing

Just someone walking

In the desert

Waiting for that pile

Of bones and meat

And buzzards

Real buzzards

Barry G. Wick

Steatopygous

[While listening to American Theater Organ Society Radio]

Steatopygous

Shall we dance to this organ

From the days of over the top

Theater decor in major cities

And just who am I asking

To pretend he would not trip me

It's my own enlarged posterior

Sliding so easily in my shorts

Across the blanketed chair

From which I shall not rise

As gentle flutes sing their invite

He can't pretend that ten pounds

Now lost to these months

Is spectacular to everyone

Who'd watch this festooned nob

Sway in elegant elephantisms

I shall remove this extended hand

To remain seated while embarrassed

That such a thought would cross

My sleepy and swampy thoughts

Barry G. Wick

Out of the Way

Out of the way

Oh you were thinking

Of some little restaurant

With checkered red tablecloths

Surly but fun waiters

Or some highway dive

With truckers

And gravy drown

Hot beef sandwiches and mash

I was thinking of my life

That began at four

When my mother Jean

Started me on piano lessons

I hadn't heard enough music

To form an ear 

So my ego grew

And while my output was 

My fingers and vibrating strings

I was there and music was not

Here later

After long years of not playing

I'm listening to everything

Made by greats that filled

The radio and television

I never really heard

I'm out of the way

I'm not the center

Mom thought I should be

Music fills the early morning

Cab Calloway

Peggy Lee

Woody Herman

Willy Bobo

Minnie the moocher

Eats Fried Neck Bones

And some home fries

Loading Sixteen Tons

And

That's all there is

Barry G. Wick

Time

Time

Every second is a little day

The morning comes

Rising reveals the light

To guess the time

Is a game to play

It was lost by 

Forty-five minutes

Living began in dark mode

The sink is now 

An open mouth

About to spit

On an aging face

The mirror turns

The hours to years

Eyes wrinkle

Arms flap

These muscles

We're once able

To fill and work

Without a breeze

The same shirt

The same shorts

Each decision

Makes the day grow

Eyebrows shade

As face skin droops

In half circles

Its another day

As this second

Drags itself to another

Only slower

This time

This measure

This breath

Barry G. Wick

Morning Shock

Morning Shock

Out of bed

To the plastic sink

I hit the light switch

Thinking of all my failures

Refreshed to me by

The opening image

On my phone

Tall in white underwear

I think of Montana

So many passed though

Every one a winner

And I rejected them all

Out of fear that my family

Would be hurt

I only hurt myself

Keeping myself from 

Adventures filled with love

Now as light hits my eyes

Old irises close as eyelids

Late upon this sour scene

Shut me off from wrongs

The towers climbed

Falling to hard ground

The morning filled with memory

Barry G. Wick