The Fat Imp

The Fat Imp

At the edge of bed

Gathering phone in moose skin pouch

A new tablet with cords

Then remembering to brush teeth

Wash eyes and hands

Sandals 

To the kitchen

Fill water jugs in the fridge

Take first two pills of the day

Test for sugar

Test for pressure

Take temperature

The imp sends a photo

Rare

Since imps are mostly thin

Able to move quickly

Joking and playing tricks

Certainly not hobgoblinish tricks

They are mean

Like knocking the measuring cup

From a hand to break it in the sink

The hobgoblin plays mean

With the imp

Locked as they are in the home

Unseen and invisible to everyone

Except each other

The gob is seen by the imp

Imagined really

Since the imp is alone often crying

Over spilt flour and tea

Tomorrow is bread day

Tonight the fish dipped in batter

Fried to the imp's strict recipe

Meals planned days in advance

Since he's fat and hungry

To play a trick on himself

His mind mixes the tartar sauce

As an old horn concerto

Mixes notes with Chopin

How strange for the imp

Who will call this familiar 

Spawn of Satan today

Something that sounds common

In his life

Since his friends are also

Unprotected from words that wound

He feels them in others

A failing of this life

That should have covered him

In alligator skin and tank steel

And so the imp begins his emptiness

Today her Majesty the broadcast baroness

Filters room to room

The couch says

The tea cools

Batteries charge

A dark day with rain

Is the shade of Satan

As is every sunny day

The old fat imp

Presses forward in lockstep

With the phalanxes of other imps

Killing silence

Shredding a lonely day

With questions 

Barry G. Wick

Hidden Baggage

Hidden Baggage

We bring baggage on these trips

Even when we're alone sitting

In an old person's room

With spider webs hanging

In the corners

I bring the Black Hills

With my own thoughts

Of Mt. Rushmore.

Plus all the people

We took as guests there

Through old days years

People expect their local friend

To act as tour guide

No it's okay I'll wait

I've been here hundreds of times

I don't need to hear or see

The hypocrisy again

It's tattooed on my body and brain

Invisibly with nothing ink

Then a satchel full of stories

Spread each time we visit

The poets house on the far hill

On the curb with the view

That's ok in the waves

Of chipmonks and noisy children

Off to the buffalo

Stay in the jeep cannot

Yeah he's two feet away

Thinking he'll horn your face

Hanging out the window

A hundred degrees in the shade

Nice crop of sage this year

Pick it and get caught

You'll pay your fine

Before the college loan

Leave the rock

Public property

Fingerprints are traceable

Now the flight back to Rapid City

Or Deadwood or Sturgis

The headline reads

Tourist Gored by Buffalo

I remember that lady behind

Us on the Harley

No update on condition

But I know the buffalo

Is smirking once again

Barry G. Wick

Going Nuts

Going Nuts

It's soon time to go completely nuts.

It's important to be remembered

As the member of the family

Who was completely on the bizarre

Side of existence when a person

Crafts bow ties for bees

Puts lipstick on flowers

Massages trees with baby oil

Cuts the lawn with a scissors

Rolls naked down grassy hills

Wanders dark streets in top hats

All decisions are made with

The yes-no-maybe wheel

And ends every sentence with +

As if to signify there's more +

Then coming to the thought

That's how life should be lived

Every day+

Barry G. Wick

 

The Treaty

The Treaty

When childhood is over,

When the parents push you out,

Even for the world of work,

Or higher education,

A treaty is made with the world

That says you belong to you,

Unless you elect to stay

Close to the family.

Major decisions belong to you

As do mistakes and goofs

And all matter of wrongs

Against the others who live

In the town.

There are those who believe

You owe your government

Whatever the government says you owe.

If you get pregnant

The government's say you owe

The product of that pregnancy

For paying taxes

Service to society

As a soldier in war.

Only women no longer

Belong to themselves ever.

If a man wants to use

A woman's body 

the precedent has been set in stone.

Women can be forced to have babies.

Which means men can legally force

Women to have sex.

Never mind anti-rape laws,

Kidnapping laws,

Raped and pregnant

The man owns the woman's body.

It's his treaty with society.

The baby and all children from his woman

Belong to him.

This includes the girls he brings

Into the world.

Forget their mothers.

They have no freedom for anything.

So says thirty states

And the Supreme Court.

The men voted.

They own the law.

They own the women.

Even the women they convince

To be their slaves to their law

I thought we rid ourselves of slavery.

I thought people belonged to themselves.

I guess I don't and the women I've known 

Don't own themselves.

That is so, so wrong.

Barry G. Wick

The Well

We sang a song at summer camp

About a boy who falls into a well.

I am still falling

Into the well of memory.

Upon its sides are shards

Of glass that cut me as I fall.

The well has no bottom

That would stop the pain

Of everything I remember.

I awaken from my dreams

Only to find I'm still falling.

This is my punishment

For all the hours 

Of useless life I've lived.

When I discovered

The memories I have

Of all these years,

I cringe as I pass

Another sharp piece

Slices the shreds of skin

On what is left of me.

This is my punishment.

I am where I belong.

It is dark.

It is painful.

I am shamed.

Others may fall in front

And behind me.

Of them, I am unaware.

I have been unaware of others

All my life as I ran over

So many.

Be assured I suffer

Every mistake

Now that I am alone

As I fall through the memory

In a dark and dangerous well.

Barry G. Wick

The Adventures of President Gluppot

 

The Adventures of President Gluppot

President Gluppot sends his greetings

by chance of all these meetings

from the nation of Retainia.

Another war, another mania.

“I'm happy you have joined us,

You're in a deep, purloining fuss.”

This has all happened much before

like a knock on an ocher door.

“You can stay as long as you like,”

As he casually stabs all with a pike.

So begins another sticky situation

in the somewhere of another nation.

“You cannot dream of freedom, gents,

just dig deep for gleedom's pence.”

Barry G. Wick

Narcissus

Narcissus

Greet your mirrors, boys.

No more looking at the smooth

Surface of an ancient pond.

Now, your smartphone camera

Preserves every oil-coated

Muscle on every anatomical

Part of your well-tanned body.

Your pride shows beneath

A black thong or nude

What the heck, why not?

We all look and compare.

There will never be perfection

Until an old man believes

As he sips the wine of youth.

Barry G. Wick

Life Goes On

Life Goes On

Life goes on

Death goes on

Eternity goes on

The remembered go on

The forgotten go on

Eventually everybody goes on

We live for the living

We live for ourselves

We live for our families

We live for the moment

We live with our guilt

We live with our shame

We live with what we built

We live with our name

Barry G. Wick

For Ira Laney

A Broken Branch

A Broken Branch

My son no longer talks to me

Just as I no longer hear the crows

On the flagged ponderosa

Next to Hangmans Rock.

His children know more about me

Than I know about a crow's breath.

It twisted down the hill to my face

As it flutters the fuzz on a young ear

That cannot fathom the confusion of

A son's first sounds just fresh

From his mother's womb.

My lonely hours inside this trailer

Beg for any voice to speak

One kind word that first

Came from his mouth. 

I am so proud of him

That he has thrown me away

Like a match that failed to strike.

I am no man to him

As most gay men are to their families.

We are men in name only

As we hold ourselves aloft

Our black feathers brushing worn bark

Our toes holding fast to dead branches,

Screaming unintelligible verbs

At loosely arranged north winds

Hoping other crows will find this tree.

Barry G. Wick

A Time for Moats

A Time for Moats

It's no fun guessing.

You were there

Then you weren't.

I couldn't  know

What you were thinking.

You came to my place

Nicely dressed

Like you were going out.

You didn't call.

What could I know?

All these years now

Are bricks stacked

Against each other's walls

Ready to make new ones.

I say the wrong thing.

You begin to cry.

You won't get angry.

What can I know if

You say nothing

Along with your tears.

I give up.

Is this the way it is

To be with everyone

I want to love me?

There is only one way

Out of this silence.

It's time to get concrete

Mixed for the bricks.

There are only walls

To build between me

And everyone else.

I'll open no doors.

I'll start no calls

And answer none.

In here must be

Some kind of happiness.

Barry G. Wick

Good Morning

 

Good Morning

The fan on the furnace

spins for longer and longer

as a horn on the radio

plays its concerto

of a cold morning

The machine on the counter

plays my dishes clean

Electric lights right and left

and over the stove

All this to disappear?

My fragile world

disappears imperceptibly

as it crawls through the hours

its low slung belly

drags upon the hard ground

There are no heights

for it has been the demon

of all lives

waiting for its time to bite

A simple breakfast

will make it disappear

if only for temporary seconds

Which will hide you more?

Eggs or bran

Coffee or tea

Butter or jam

If we give it choices

it will stray from its

muddy path

and lose itself in decisions

I send it to the stars

A few parsecs and it will

forget about me

Barry G. Wick