Alyceland

No magic in this desert–
that's why she sent me here.

This desert of existence
and its skeletal city wind
has hollowed me of all my power.

Fell asleep and woke up afraid.
There's no question I'm in her world now.
Creatures and places move
so strange,
and nothing seems real except the noise.
The stench is awful.
The cold is awful.
I'd kill that witch if I wasn't so weak.
And there's always the pain in my middle,
reminding me that I'm here–
reminding me
that it was unwise
to ever cross the blonde witch.

Curled up in the garbage, I try to sleep,
try to gain just a moment's reprieve–
but, like sharp white fire that hunts me,
her smile and teeth forever come
cutting through the dark.
All I want to do
is offer my apologies,
just ask her–beg her–to let
me be free
of this horrible place,
this loud, hollow place,
but all that comes out
of my rancid mouth
is a sick mewling

whenever I try to speak.


"Alyceland" Copyright © 2014 by D. Wickliff

Behind Warlocked Doors

bruja-llways twist like snakes,

food dances on djinn-er plates;

when the cucuy clock

thrice strikes 19—

the grimoire-drobe jackets raze


"Behind Warlocked Doors" Copyright © 2014 by D. Wickliff

Universal Truths

I are not who you think I are . . . isn't it the same for us all? Measure me not by my past or my future, my crimes or my duties. Weigh a person's worth by that which is universally significant: the size and manufacturer of their flat screen TVs; the gaudiness of their obnoxiously useless diesel trucks.

Ambulances

Knock knock . . .
Who's there?
Medics, sir. We received
an alert from this residence.

My soul instantly wilts.
Since Grandma was taken
three weeks ago, it could only be Grandpa
that they've now come for.

May we come in?
There's no saying NO . . .
I want to, but instead I say nothing.
I just meekly open the door.

They follow their sleek black pods
to the east bedroom, those medics with
grinning assistant drones and sidearms,
to find

Grandpa sitting in his favorite chair,
putting down his detective novel,
fake cover, smiling,
apparently not surprised to see our guests.

He makes to stand
NO, sit down,
then their pods are clicking and bleeping;
lights play across all our faces.

The medics nod, severe young men so
healthy and fit. This man is very sick,
says one . . .
Yes. He will need a doctor, says the other.

My soul that was wilted brittle plant matter
has just been incinerated so. So . . . Doctors.
Worse than we thought. The final cinching
of a noose first tied by handsome young medics.

Grandpa, always strong-armed and steel-willed,
again tries to stand, gently reason, and protest.
A reassuring smile, I'm fit and I'm fine–
then they strap him onto the gurney and wheel him out.

In the fading daylight we meet eyes,
Grandpa and us remaining three; but there are
no words, just fragile, trembling smiles. The ambulance
speeds away to join the others circling the block.


"Ambulances" Copyright © 2014 by D. Wickliff

Just pretend like I didn't say anything. Nothing at all. What a naughty, naughty little poem you are. You don't even deserve a title. Or dinner. I am so disappointed in you. Now you leave this blog this instant, and think about what you've done.

Thoroughly humiliated now, the prose hobbles away, off to sulk, and its blubbery sobs affect me only mildly. This is for its own good.

On "Entitlements": I am usually not a big fan of ultra-cryptic prose (though some may consider my work just that), but I do sometimes enjoy delving into a piece without any predetermined scenario in mind. It can be fun just putting randomness to paper and seeing what you can make of it afterwords. An entertaining exercise now and then.