On the Porch

On the Porch

The winter sun is low

In the warmer afternoon.

I think about

What I sew.

Wispy clouds hang overhead,

The sky's tangled thread.

Snow melts to send

Rivulets of water

Down sides of the street.

Slight wind damage to the home

Next to me has peeled

The skirting down half the side

Which faces me with a reason

To call the office to complain.

No no no. I'm not that sort.

My complaints are about me.

They cover my eyes before sleep

To wonder about all my poor choices

And the basics of my gay life

Or lack of it now.

Old men need partners that began

In the warm days of life

When porches never needed me.

Sunny life follows those days

As two men should follow each other.

I lived in fear of everything around me.

Every thought was a question.

Then the day came I stood for myself.

It was just a minute.

Those seconds have guided these years

Into the quiet and alone.

I make my peace with those I hurt

Many mostly in silence.

There's no one to call.

There's no one to help with dishes

Or to share the handle of a vacuum.

Now the breeze gets colder.

The sun is deep in the West.

So I am needing to find some warmth

Off the porch to be forgotten.

Barry G.Wick

Evolutionary Tears

Evolutionary Tears

Behold!  Oh stop with the religious angelisms.

To the future I listen from rhombic speakers.

I float in the air like Caesar's thirty molecules

Brushing through your veoli in search

Of mushroom seeds and rabbit turds.

I am still a being in the time of solar dawns

That tear at atoms releasing their contents,

A bag corn chips scattered on pavement

Trampled by oxen that pull covered wagons

Made of glass and unknown metals.

My descendants settle in cracks 

In the concrete of black holes and super giants.

I disturb all conventions with a dedicated thought.

Monster of Motion, be not still at the end.

Your fight against the calm goes on

As it screams for me to hear its familiar octaves.

Barry G. Wick

Freedoms

Freedoms

This is a time of confusions

When people are full of delusions

Their freedom is all

They want a tall wall

Between them and other's conclusions

Barry G. Wick

The Piano Man's Money

The Piano Man's Money

I know the song. The words didn't click for me when music was the Empire State of mind.  I did play piano before these dwindling word-soaked days.   A synth in the middle bedroom has 64 keys.  Good enough for sensual Bach.  I wish I had a piano with 88 writhing keys, hot and loose.  There are many free. I can barely move groceries and know few muscled lovers.  There's hire it done, but wealth escapes me faster than honey scooped by a greedy remover attacked by bees.

Barry G. Wick

First Base

First Base

The calling to an old 

Form of paranoia

Has me suspicious

Out of my day

And having conversations

In my mind

With people I hardly know

/

Who are you

I say to my imaginary nemesis

There is no answer

Because he doesn't know himsf

Inside my head

Which probably says

More about me than the person

Who occupies my imagination

So I travel.though all the possibilities

As related to my own history

With other paranoid people

Who studied me in another life

I had been lassoed by circumstances

I couldn't say no to

I grit my teeth realizing

The mess I'm in now

I can't say no to the new attacker

Who is likely just as lonely

Why would anybody

Want to meet me in this state

This magic of love will defeat itself

In a whirlwind of dust and smoke

From neurons rubbing themselves

That starts fires in the heart

Or wherever emotions

Lay at the bases of mind.and body

Barry G. Wick