There will come a time,
a time of which
one has never been told
and would not understand
if one had been told.
One has been had.
The truth will hit one.
Complete descriptions
featuring fantastic
adjectives
are inserted here.
Running around the world
will cease.
The thought will occur to
one:
“What an idiot I was
for running around the
world
like an idiot.”
The world will shrink
to the size
of whatever distance it is
to where one buys food
to where one gets
medicines
to where the hospital is
possibly to where some
family
or friends
live
or include one in their
family
And one will not mind
this diminution of
localities
this shrinking of the wool
over one's eyes
One starts to see the
little things
like unvacuumed carpet
bits of string dust crumbs
of food
tiny shreds of paper
that escaped the dump
into a larger waste sack
or bag
depending upon which
part of the nation
your language describes
floppy open-ended plastic
or paper
containers into which
are dumped life's flotsam
and jetsam
before it is released
to the great dinosaurs
that consume these bags
on one's special day
a day one hopes will not
be forgotten
since such containers
full of crud sweepings and
empty containers
either fall upon the curb
or sit in the garage or
hallway
until the following week
when one can again forget
to take these now gently
expanding
gas bubbles of garbage
out
oh yes
one forgets even the
simplest words
only to spend useless time
coming up with a
definition
one enters into the
internet search engine
in order to find the
correct
combination of letters of
the alphabet
that match the gap in
one's head
One has much to which
one looks forward
as the solar orb sweeps
ever more rapidly
across the raceway of sky
ever more rapidly
please stop
ever more rapidly
why won't you stop
ever more rapidly
and then there are the
nights
that shake and roll
beneath the festering
sheets
that whip every little
patch of skin
with wakeful pleasures
designed to punish the
mind
with the importance of
unlocked doors
burning coffee
greasy ovens full of black
things
old peas in teeth-ripped
plastic
and oh yeah
the question of the middle
of the night
is this garbage day
and why didn't this one
take it to the curb
when once again it's time
to stagger through a
darkened room
bumping the walker
into everything one tried
to remember
is in-between one and a
toilet seat
up or down
which doesn't matter quite
soon
as the moon moves faster
please stop
as the moon speeds faster
stop stop stop
as the moon shreds
its sol-lit lumbering
with its unseen nighttime
walker
through its black bedroom
of night
bright and awake
as one is
waiting for another day
for breakfast
for lunch
for dinner
for the same Beethoven
this
heard for the painful,
unnumbered time
of one's life
when one begs the radio
personality
to bring out something
one has not heard
Oh yes
even the Ode to Joy
can be an Ode to ad
nauseam
Ode be damned
Ode be gone
and one slides into sleep
a long tortuous sleep
full of discomfiture
as a blanket brands one's
cheek
when one realized
one has been part of the
herd
waiting for one's balls to
be cut
(not the case for the
heroine
of this epos)
waiting for the smell of
burning hair
on an open prairie
the dreams of a corpse
lying in the oven
hair on fire
feeling owned by
everything
and everyone
that preceded this
baptism in flaming methane
And the priest asks:
“What name do you give
this corpse?”
Just one. Just one.
Barry G. Wick
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