Familiar Music

“When the music's over turn out the light”--Jim Morrison

Often the music is the same

a few tunes that express

this constant mood

repeated

like the stuck records of old days

that would regurgitate a single word

or phrase as many times

as possible

until the finger slaps

the needle to stop it

bad needle naughty record

except now

it's possible to have

one or more

musical moods play

until either the gun goes off

or something breaks

the concentration of the player

two songs today

repeated ad nauseum

were it possible to end

all this

the music would play

as the soul slipped

into the expanding universe

until the electric was cut

or someone found

the remnants of a final act

that can never happen

who would even call

or check to see

months perhaps

until a concern revealed

the truthful corruptions

of an evacuated head

its dessicated last thought

upon the wall

what chance

that the exploding brain

creates the written score

in blood upon the wall

of music heard

the final second

as the universe

repeats itself

this scene might play

again with theme and variations

or create

the greatest symphony

this self-possessed victim

would never write

or go unrecognized

as a musical score

by crime cleaners

in protective white suits

lost greatness destroyed

by chemical swipes

so somewhere this orchestra

that you cannot hear

plays on unknown instruments

the music

of desperate love that soars

through an audience

so suddenly come to grief

by the story of this piece

the entire house is gassed

to end the shrieks and sorrow

the flood of instant tears

that flows through the aisles

the symphony of suicide

plays

only one performance

where even the orchestra

sees the music for the first time

and despite its vast creation

five movements with a choir

no performance has ever made it

to the second movement

or passed its initial

8 bar reading

it must be difficult

to populate so depressed

an orchestra and chorus

surely someone just had a baby

got a new job

bought a few new recordings

to play over and over

over and over

over and over

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick


{{It's an unusual poem.  The question was asked if I'm alright.......and no place within the poem do I suggest that am the potential victim....it was a train of thought based upon some listening I was doing this morning...that turned into a dark, albeit morbid examination and surreal set of images....after I wrote it I was assisting mother in her bedroom and since we had no internet this AM....I had put on a large playlist that included The Doors....and the Morrison line came up...almost as if there was some sort of muse working here. I am quite alright and have NO intentions. I have much to live for...much. So I appreciate the concern....there are dark corners of my mind that must given light during creative times. They are examined and tossed away as easily as one would toss away a used tissue. NO basis in reality.   I'm quite fine. I write...I am a writer. Not famous, never likely to be famous....but one could also ask the same question of Steven King....}}

The Second Snow

These flakes seem much more resiliant

able to stand the cool breath

this day breathes

upon the Black Hills

until time sends them

dripping through the canyon rapids

Certainly I know the words

Paha Sapa

but raised in the white bread house

those words were rarely uttered

unlike the homes

on the reservation

or the northside of my town

Rapid City

Hay Camp

and who knows

what the Lakota

called this gap and the grass

that filled two sides of it

It's hard to imagine

them coming into this area

in search of tatanka

buffalo

another word most learned

from a movie filmed

east south and north of here

My father double scheduled Lakota

people in his office for eye exams

and gave out watches

in the early days

because he said

“Lakota have no word for time”

how lovely

no word for time

no moviestar many moons

no measured distance

from here until tomorrow

just alive and surviving

the system that locked them

into the spaces where

we could tolerate them

separated from us

we who felt so superior

handing out five dollar bills

when the troubled family

struggled up the hill to our house

baby wife man

on a snowy day

much like this

no sense of time

except the empty bellies

that gnawed at their dignity

so much so they came

to my father for a handout

my father

telling me to stay inside

when I watched from his den

in our comfortable home

fearful that something might

happen to him

when all this family wanted

was food a place to get away

from the cold

this measured cold

that pulls the hunger

from a conquered people

I would barely know

and feel the shame

of my superiority

the day I shook hands

with Russell Means

in the downtown deli

near the piano store

where in “times” before I sold

sitting at my desk to watch him

when “times were slow”

and his friends

across the street

take AIM

at a thoughtless world

from the second floor

to shoot a message to the world

about dignity truth worth

about the people

who really own the land

where this house sits

where I watch the snow

and worry

where I'll get five dollars

to feed myself

after I'm forced to leave this place

by the system that forced

them

off their land

into servitude

to strange customs

of ownership

the destruction of families

the system of time

no snowflake

is white enough

to stand up to

the same system

that forces me to finish

this poem with these ugly words:

Copyright (c) 2012 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved


((((Writer' Note:  A friend points out that there are many Lakota words for the passage of time.  Of course there are.  This is a poem about misunderstandings, misconceptions, lack of understanding, cross- cultural differences and stereotypes.  I understand stereotypes very well as a gay man because stereotypes have always been a part of gay life....sometimes we even acted them out becaus of our own ignorance....Ignorance spreads like wildfire until it often becomes hatred of others and self-hatred....which is just so stupid.   The greatest lesson we can learn is to take each person one at a time.  What was passed to my father was ignorant....and it was a story he repeated often...and to a few knowledgeable people....he looked very bad in some respects....but they said nothing to him as he was a man who genuinely wanted to help people see....and a large number of Lakota people had very bad eyes.  I am genuinely a man who has to communicate in order to stay sane which psychiatrists will probably inform me has no place in modern psychiatric discussion as "sane" is probably not a true definition or diagnosis of why I need to write.  While it's not OCD...it just might be close to it.   Instead of compulsive hand washing, perhaps it's my way of cleaning out the words and feelings in my brain so I can feel clean.  Oh no, the more I write the more my foot becomes either locked in my mouth or my head.  And as we all know, a foot in the head is worth two on the ends of your legs.)))