Start Writing A Journal says the Great Thompson

Am I suppose to make money?

Getting fat in my old age

living off the writing of my youth

from books that are supposed

to mean something important

touted in college and workshops

In his grave

Jackson Pollock is getting fat

from his drips and drizzles

that are still beyond

what the boys understand

in South Dakota

Maybe tomorrow I will write something

that will become resilient

just enough that I shall be quoted

fawned upon by the poet world

flashes of green everywhere

the gold glitterati jamming

my hands with wrapped stacks

of fifties and hundreds

of which I want nothing

though gracious I shall be

if only to wonder

if this was the reason

I started writing in the first place

Words set on paper were

ordered by The Great Thompson

a high school teacher

have been shredded out of fear

that my real youth will be

pawed upon by librarians

tickled by researchers

for the one lump of diamond language

that made my Rolls Royce lifestyle

part the streets

much as Heston stood

waiting for the special effects people

to make the Red Sea awe the audience

Awe I said granting grace to a special moment

awe I said perfecting the visual ques

from which I have established

the reasonable respect

that only a Russian sized yacht will do

dragging bags of euros behind my walker

silver with gold highlights

acanthus leaves grace its columns

steadying my trudge along the decks

oh yes Sir with love

I shall pounce upon the magnificent language

is if to capture the Spanish vaults

of Inca gold with every letter

separated by heraldic commas

only dreamed of by Oxford dons

who shall call for Henri Cartier-Bresson

to gild me with his Leica

so that The Saints

will question their gold leaf book

I am later entombed in Pere Lachaise

in a space bulldozed by naked men

with their enormous penises

to lay me beside Great Oscar in his sleep

Little did they all know

I was happiest with barely enough

to get to next month

in the golden sun of Iowa

in my finest flannel loincloth

blazing white in kitchen light

set-off neatly by an orange couture t-shirt

dripping urine back and forth

through my trailer

golden poems shaping each drop

damn I need to go now

Barry G. Wick