The Word

A significant improvement

over the grunt and pointing

the word

in many languages

and alphabets

takes us to or from

mental telepathy

if from

then our descent into confusion

is deserved

if to

there is hope

that all the wars and disagreements

will be relieved

by something better

Automatically as if by design

someone confronted by these words

may wish to voice their own

since as many of us know

that to control the conversation

to control the flow of words

increases our esteem

with our tribesmen

since few wish to vocalize

thus leading others

in various directions

either mentally of physically

Those from that other

jungle neighborhood

will wag their butts

and raise their loincloths

in an affront to the speaker

since their arrows

have another stripe or feather

and likely forgodssake

another gODD

created by their old men

around a fire

or in some forgetful book

that only they think is wonderful

So there you have the problem

old men and women

leading younger

into belief systems

through words

and battles

that destroy the young

since the old

are jealous of youth

and had to develop

a system that would

punish the younger

and their hubris

typically pleading peace

bliss and happiness

Youth waving their

intensely hard cocks

or tight breasts and butts

no wrinkles sagging

their souls into despair

Words created by the old

designed to kill off

just enough of the young

to make them old

so they too

can create systems

to destroy the young

they bring into the world

And that

as they say

is the last word

no

don't respond through thought

you will disappoint me

as I am old

trying to keep

the ages pure and hatefilled

so don't fight me

go find some younger person

to send to the waste pile

of history

so that their friends

will grow old

as they attempt to develop

they're own words

that no one will contend

and please

do as your mother

taught you

change your loincloth

regularly

something smells

Barry G. Wick

Question and Response

Old Doc Munson

with his years

creased upon his face

had his women's clinic

in the morning shadow

of Hangman's Hill

on the first ring

of the black mountain

hills of Dakota

that splits Rapid City

Some praying protesters

might have wanted

to take him up that hill

Many women thanked him

As a poor young man

in the dirty thirties

Ben Munson

joined the CCC

the Civil Conservation Corps

to support himself

and his family

On his first day

he sought the main office

of the camp at Custer

Walking in

he saw a tall man

in uniform

his feet in boots

upon the desk

Ben had a question

that we don't know

to this day

I'm looking for the head man 

he said

From behind the desk

Lieutenant Frank James Soutar

barked

I'm the man with the big nuts

and so our family

has only one recorded

direct quote

of my grandfather

a man who spoke and wrote

seven languages

including Arabic

a talented engineer

who was said

to have read

every book

in the Rapid City Library

Such were the days

when the government

and its wealthy President

cared about its people

before gross profiteers

before television

before the Internet

before people's heads

were down

on their mobile phones

looking at an idiot's tweets

from the President's bedroom

in the White House

a time when my grandfather

was helping a young man

find his way

into the profession of medicine

to help women

out of the trouble

some men caused

Barry G. Wick

History in Retrograde

“Those who fail to study history might do it again.”--William Pocorny Stareclough, 14^th century British Philosopher

((General Washington's Press Secretary enters the tent.))

Good afternoon.

Yes, General Washington

will be going to Mount Vernon

again this weekend with his entourage.

We know this because

the slaves are already

clipping the grass while measuring

with rulers.

You know the future

father of our country

likes to hit boiled eggs

around the lawns with sticks.

Is he crazy? What an insulting question.

Next. There is no truth to the rumor

that Mary Washington is selling

Florida property to rich Brits.

We're not really at war with the Brits,

just call it an alternative peace.

We're all Brits until otherwise noted.

No, the Washingtons don't call

Mount Vernon “Mar-y-Languishes”

The colonial press pool will not be able

to go in the future president's wagon train

as there are many semaphore technicians

who have to be strung out

across the landscape

to keep The General in touch

with New York, Boston, and Philly.

Once in Mount Vernon

you'll each have two minutes

to file your stories.

I'm sorry to those from Chicago

and Phoenix,

you're not even cities, yet,

and well, we just don't have

a connection that far.

Yes, the future president

has promised to drain the swamp

but as you know

the Frenchie city designer

is falling behind with his drawings

for GeorgeTheThirdTown.

The General has ranted about that

in the dark of night to his cat, Tweets.

Next, Benjamin Franklin will meet the General

in Mount Vernon

to discuss his nutball idea

that one day lightning

will be used to send messages

on strings between cities.

There's your crazy person.

Oh, before he leaves,

The General is meeting

with the British ambassador

in the oval tent.

Only Brit press will be allowed in.

I guess they're discussing

something called

the Delaware Crossing Project

with the painters already

creating the picture

of the defeat

which you'll have copies

in your alternative history books

in about 200 years or so.

God Save The King.

Barry G. Wick

Nothing to See Here

For an atheist

I sure pray more than necessary

It doesn't appear to be

hedging my bets

It is just that all this space

seems to be something worth

chatting with

from time to time

I've already had the best answers

from the Universe

because it seems

that the creation's message

has been around

for us to discover

We don't seem to be heeding

that message

Science discoveries are wonderful

but the basic human messages

don't seem to be getting through

so I suspect

that we're gonna go down

the extinction trail

like other populations

of this or that animal or being

Hey Universe

just leave the bunnies

they're so cute

Barry G. Wick

On the Porch

A light breeze on a Monday evening

that sees the first fireflies

neighbor raccoons and rabbits

cross freshly mowed grass

that's mostly weeds of all kinds

as flashes from storms

to the northwest try to keep up

with Lester Young on saxophone

and those he played with

springing beats on the night

Buddy Rich on drums

Nat Cole on piano

even in the thirties

of the 20^th century

Oh, he was before my awareness

though his time extends into this era

because of all the recordings

with the greatest cats of forty years

in a blessing beyond the ability

of all religious texts to comfort

with these rolling lines of sax notes

that suspend the night

with applause that I want to join

only to change my mind since

it's past ten in the night

past times when

Billie Holiday and Lester Young

Prez and Lady Day

played in '57 on CBS

died within months of each other

her broken heart

they're rotting livers

when I was seven in '59

in my house not interested in jazz

with parents who probably

could not remember their names

I'm on a porch keeping them alive

Barry G. Wick

The Revolt of the Unwritten Poems

In the darkest memories

where everything seems just vision

in the time before before birth

when everything is explained

to any soul that would become a being

where the simplest instructions

of breathing or sensations

are taught in unstructured classes

where choices are made

for parents and siblings

where basic mistakes

are explained in depth

only to be wiped away

by the complexities of birth itself

now many years later

a protest begins

deep in a confused and tortured mind

here

the unwritten poems

march down the rugged paths

of expectional creation

only to be tossed away

when washing the dishes

or sitting in the doctor's office

reading a year old magazine

that leans in an odd direction

of travel to places

that are too expensive

for a common poet to attain

These poems have been sitting

in the dark of a mental fog

more poisonous than any

from Sherlock's London

or Beijing just yesterday

They plot their revolt

complete with Eisensteinian stairways

upon which a mutha-writer screams

for his baby rolling down stairs

in its black and white pram

while throngs of angry poems

are shot by royalist soldiers

whose fingers refuse to touch

a keyboard or pick up a pen

There were no instructions

on how to deal with these poems

and so they sit in the darkness

building their anarchistic bombs

that are set to explode

as the first thoughts of day

push aside the dreams of sleep

There is no inner police force

equipped to investigate

these piles of uncreated angers

that may only have one bang-up image

or an ill-formed title

that now hangs in the air

for it to breathe the horrors

much like those perfumed garbage bags

from the local crapateria

that stink a kitchen

where poets do their dishes

and destroy the beginnings of poems

unable to make their Tarkovskian births

It should be noted

that references to Russian film directors

is only provided to confuse the reader

and are not based

upon any real understanding by this poet

They are an attempt to make him appear

educated and wise in the ways

of poetic imagery

In other words, careful, this poet

might be a poseur

who can't write his way

out of a trite and smelly plastic bag

Sshhhhh, they turn the corner

holding their blank signs

ready for David Lean's Zhivago

to witness the sabers slashing

unformed poems

who only seek bread

and something

else now forgotten like justice

peace

love

and stuff from the crapateria

Barry G. Wick