The Distance from Me to Me

Was it always this foggy

I remember crossing

the Bay Bridge years ago

unable to see anything beyond 10 feet

around the car

and that is what it felt like

as I grew into an adult

littered with the thoughts

of everyone around me

inside my head

I couldn't stand up for myself

direct who I was

into anything for me

I always heard voices like flames

and I was meat on the grill

No thing seemed right

no direction was the best

and so I wandered through

the cloud high above this world

and didn't even get wet

Now suppose you've reached my age

having tried so many paths

and none of them seemed right

there's no success in the modern sense

no feeling of accomplishment

And now I find the same cloud

hanging around me

some ghastly shroud ripped

from the graveyard of past lives

I now fight to keep from tightening

My friends move in their directed lives

filled with comforts of self

confident in their own worlds

their lives secure on single roads

they've chosen years ago

Why compare myself to them

I think inside this high cloud

full of unfulfilled dreams

It's only a matter of time

when all this fog will blow away

My suspicians begin to turn

to the sense of all lives past and present

to realize a fact

that what I feel today is what

all feel at different points of life

We circle in our clouds above

trying to see the ground

that has never been beneath us

and no matter what our comforts

they all shall disappear

So what I did to take as many paths

to breach the distance

from me then to me now

is what I did with what I am

all other voices silence in this peace

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

There is a Bird

I know there is a bird

sitting on the trough

that gathers rain

from the covered porch

at the back of the house

the rain that falls when it wants

to fill these small rivers

that become larger rivers

This bird is there

if only for a few minutes

before he flys away

to poo somewhere else

because that is how I knew

he was there

Suddenly a white glob

dropped through my

line of sight

between me

the air in the house

the double pains of door glass

the screen on the door

the air on the porch

the screen on the porch

me looking at the tree

and poo falling to the ground

from the ass of a bird

Oh Bird with poo of white

please take your unclean ass

to another porch

where there aren't poets

who see everything

and dream of a world without

white poo

It wasn't what I wanted to see today

I'd had thoughts of living on the prairie

while putting a bedspread in the washer

living alone on the prairie 500 years ago

trying to survive the hail and the winter

Instead

oh imageless bird

because of you my thoughts

are of poo

now poo on the prairie

herds of great pooing buffalo

and one dumb naked poet

dodging enormous flops of poo

hail stones and winter snows

and it's not even time for cocktails

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick

Of Oaths and Darkness

I remember when I signed

my oath

oh not a signature

because I did not know

how to write

it was what I saw

bright lights

the first feel of hands

the vague images

of first experience

they come to me now

from 60 years ago

remembered visions

from what I believe

was my birth

in a hospital not far

from what would be

my first home

on a gently rising street

first memory

of a promise to live

in the light

and away from the darkness

and yet life has a way

of showing us those first visions

though the darkness

that surrounds us in the years

that follow

the haze of the foggiest bridge

the dull closeness of a wet rubber glove

things seen and felt

and yet somehow eclipsed

surrounded by a halo

through which we stumble

not drunk yet inebriated

with an overwhelming sadness

as if one is walking

through a cemetary

filled with family

it is the oath we who live have signed

to go on through this field

to return to the doorway

of the closed room

from where we came

to which we promise to return

enlightened aware bemused

filled with laughter and sadness

a giant tank filled with beads of life

blended into the fullness

of debilitating age

whose promise has been fulfilled

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G Wick

The Justify Sonata for Brain and Colon

What I bought I now sell on Ebay

to gain a few bucks for what

I no longer use

which I used to justify

my existence

and the string of bullshit

to which I attached myself

Now I realize

the manufacturer

is bidding up the price

on my used item

against the great unwashed

in order to keep their new product

valuable in the marketplace

so that snobs will keep buying

what they probably make

for pennies on the dollar

They bid on my thing

to keep their thing posh

(It's like tattooing your cock

with the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel

instead of a barber pole)

And that's the point isn't it

to build a stack of shit so high

that people will feel good

they've hired you

or bought your product

and you thought this

was going to be a poem

filled with rare Amazonian orchids

and nectar drool snot droplets

with rare and phantasmagorical fauna

enough for ten expeditions

and one-off high-buck phrases

to make you feel justified

to spend this time

to absorb what I write

when a poem is only a piece of shit

sticking out of the poet's colon

able to make that musical splash

in the toilet of your imagination

So how is that a sonata you ask

(the poet references the title

of his majestic creation)

hey it's a musical term that makes

you think I'm edjikated

and trying to pull

images from various encyclopedias

of human experience

when all I am

is another corporation

to be sure a poor one

trying to game you

into a purchase

at a price that will make you

believe you have something

of value

Thank you

dear reader

because my share

of your unconscious mind

is now assured

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick