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Thursday, January 16, 2020



Nearer my godd to thee

oh smartphone

I walk the halls

of your great palace

with my head bowed

bumping into your believers

falling at the curbs

as you help me

towards death of brain cells

the last of my intelligence


as playful cats

and flop-earred doggies

assail my eyes at the edge

of chemical traffic signs

inside my skull

their dim assault

prepares me for the next

instant message

about the bosses' latest

design of stupidity

in search of the almighty

dollars leave my bank

as the latest useless

geegaws pile up 

in dusty corners

may I truly be worthy

of the one use

I grace it with

now send me my underwear

so that under my pants

I can feel naughty

in deference to my misery

as I twist my ankle 

missing a step

failing to grab the bar

as I hold you in my hand

securing my pack in the other

oh small glowing godd

pretend with me

that I shall win the lottery

as I select the six numbers

you insert into my thoughts

from the seventy or so

designated to guarantee

I steer my yacht 

from this cubicle

this mental collapse

I so richly deserve

banging my knee 

into the bumper of a taxi

of which you dear Lord 

failed to notify me

as my worship of you

diminishes my field of view

may I forever sit with my dearest

as we search your bright horizons

with our coffee-trembling fingers

listening to your banalities

as we index punch you 

in the star-bright face

in the hope you'll deliver

another life-altering message

of self-worthlessness

Barry G. Wick