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I now have one regular patron who sends a monthly contribution to keep this poet alive. Yes, per usual, I'm a poor poet...and for some reason I'm a poor poet in its many meanings...but someone like my patron loves my work. If you become a sustaining patron I can guarantee you'll see writing from me on a regular basis. I do edit my work...like mad. But I don't always hit it out of the park. At least my patrons have a chance to select from all my work...and they become the editors rather than the small-minded who often edit magazines and journals. Poet James Wright,one of his last books, held by two editors for the longest time that his wife Anne took to another publisher who snapped it up and it became a huge success. Now I don't have people like Robert Bly, Don Hall, or their equals I can send my poems to for a review before I put them on the internet or send to any publisher. I believe in opening up my "horde" for the world to critique or love. And it's expensive to send out my work, getting only rejection, so it's money I don't have for food, or the electric bill. Please send what you can via my email: rikwrybac@yahoo.com via Paypal. I thank those who support me one way or another.

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Thursday, July 12, 2018

News Flashes


A power outage drives me to my porch
with three improvised lighted torches
made from empty jam jars
with punctured metal lids through which
the wicks of rolled and sewn gauze peek
The fuel gives off smoke to keep bugs at bay
Several moths go down in flames
their last flutters within feet of me
Moths are a disorganized lot
unlike their bug cousins:  the fireflies
They form a flying message
Hundreds of fireflies linked together
above the darkened lawn in the trees
behind my home
It's almost as if a neon sign
glides over this tender scene of loneliness
Where they have learned this word
is anyone's guess
yet here they are flying in formation
presenting their request
to any bug or person
who will read
or answer their request
This strange ghostly flight
of a word has me in tears
because I know how they feel
how lonely these gentle insects
who have joined arms in protest
to tell the world
their great need for what
their message glows
in the star-filled sky
three letters that make up
one word
powered by thousands of wings
soundless in their presentation
to explain their intimate desires
I cannot help them
except to beg them to stay away
from the flames that illuminate
my bare feet to my head
Here they are
far from my three breeze-twisted flames
their three letters
flickering now
every two seconds
S-E-X
S-E-X
S-E-X
damn, I love Iowa

Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

The Long Train of Suffering

Jesus was a beggar
who invested his income
He didn't make his fortune
in his father's
furniture shop
He kept the government
from taxing his capital gains
made on the goat market
by using an offshore account
It's the Christian thing to do

Won't everybody be surprised
when they have to take their turn
as Jesus in another life
Your reincarnation
only with a different body
is surrounded by the tools
of cruelty and crucifixion
Somewhere in that limbo
the cross
now forged titanium
will have been recycled
through the many lives
that have to go through
government sponsored torture

For that time
some disfavored race
will sit on the sidelines
with rating cards
ranging from zero point zero
to ten
How well did this Jesus suffer?
Six point seven
The audience applauds
Someone yells that
the judges needed to raise
the decision
Apostles are never satisfied
Those judges were Dyacks
from Borneo
who will now have to be
persecuted and wander for centuries
because they killed this Jesus
They didn't really
It just makes them the best
loincloth tailors and rag merchants
in the next history

The tomb is a refrigerated morgue
Some Mary will march
through the doors
with an entourage
in her furs and jewels
Including a blonde bimbo
they call The Mag
only to find the bin
empty
Now how did he open it
Oh yes it's magic
The auditorium is silent
when the announcer
taps the mic
It's “Jesus starring in
'Houdini on Ice'”

This Jesus runs around
showing everybody his holes
entrance wounds made with lasers
so he can be hung on the pegs
No more of those pointy spikes

See
this Jesus says
boy was that a trip

Jesus rises to heaven
since by this time
anti-gravity is as simple
as healing the sick
The Apostles split up
This show is over
The audience is restless
for the next Jesus
Next!?!

Okay kid
get some Apostles together
No you can't use the ones
the previous Jesus used
Their off writing their memoirs
starting churches
Some will be such a pain
in the ass
they'll be crucified
It's a tough world kid
but you can do it
Now start pitching
that stuff
being about
your father's business
Oh insurance
That'll make an interesting
chapter in a new testament

Risk assessment
how to avoid being
the next Jesus

I can tell you this kid
You're gonna wind up
on a cross
No two ways about it
There are benefits
This time you don't
have to drag it through
the streets
like the first Jesus
The whole thing
has been simplified
They just hang you
on the pegs
You die
save the world
and go to heaven
easy peasy


Barry G. Wick

Saturday, June 30, 2018

This and That


1.

Slippery vision slippery thought
It is what it is and sometimes not

2.

Sometimes the squirrel
barks at the dog
Sometimes the snake
is et by the frog

3.

We stand by a tree to sing a song
and all the while the tree's asleep
It hates all singing, it thinks it's wrong
the prettiest melody makes it weep

4.

Given time to observe
everything's a learning curve
A rope is tied deep in our mind
Untie the knot and you might find

5.

Sit and watch do not expound
keep your feet upon the ground
Let no word take glorious flight
until it's certain that it's right

6.

The thing we buy the thing we try
is likely something to make us cry

7.

The look of love is oft desired
but then it gets unruly mired

8.

Beware what's writ on glowing screens
and what's said in Ways and Means
Politicians want your vote
not what's writ in a four page note

9.

We beg the stars to keep their shape
to stay the same for children's sake
What stories will the sky tell then
in twenty thousand years or when

10.

We dance around this planet
as if the universe we own
until we realize it's size
we're just a seed that's sown

11.

Surrounded by convention
we think it is quite normal
even if our clothes are ripped
it's truly all quite formal
Someone wears a loincloth
someone underwear
It's all really just the same
that we refuse to bare
In the jungles deep and dark
people wear no clothes at all
You envy them their bodies svelte
and gym yourself a bill that's tall
So to the jungle with you now
and shoot down monkeys from the trees
No clothes at all is you at birth
Swim in the river and dry in a breeze

12.

You there in your suit quite tidy
thinking you're all high and mighty
Without electric this and that
the dirt accumulates
And everything you wear
will soon entomb your fate
A spot upon your tie so fine
will grow so green with mold
and everything you own
will look so shabby and quite old
Don't criticize those upon the street
whose bath was weeks ago
They're human and complete
and know something you don't know
Civilization isn't planned
it's a train wreck pure and simple
Tomorrow's world infection
begins with just a pimple

Barry G. Wick

Thursday, June 28, 2018

The Lawn in the New Day


Is there anything
more disheartening
than sitting on the edge
of a bed rising from dreams
filled with people
who are supposed
to be everyone that's inside
only to wish
there was someone outside
who would hold the hand
that stops a fall to the floor
as tears of amazement
refract the glow
of a green lawn
that sifts through raindrops
on a screen


Barry G. Wick

Tuesday, June 26, 2018

Campfire

The campfire of love
and the love of campfire
can both be extinguished
by a bucket
of cold water

Campfire belonged
to early man
who begged woman
to make dinner using it
which is why
baked rat is rarely
on the menu

Burning wood
could pop sparks
from the campfire
onto lovers
sparking in front of it

Campfire in a dream
can feel warm
just don't try
to pee it out

Wolves won't go near
a campfire
yet rhinos
will stamp and pee
to put one out
Rhinos call wolves
chicken
and like them fried
or baked in wine

How many campfires
have there been
upon the silk road
just enough
for the worms to weave it
without moonlight

Ever notice
that nobody cares
how bad you sound
singing around
a campfire
which is why
there's always a candle
lit in church

Men wearing
only loincloths
who sit near
roaring campfires
are called masochists

The crackle of a campfire
will mask
the sound of farts
only when alone

A group of women
sitting around a campfire
late at night
was called birth control

Trying to light
a campfire
in pouring rain
lead to the invention
of gasoline

Man put stones around
all campfires
to stop it from escaping
which is why
no campfire has robbed a bank
a second time

Early man never
announced himself
when coming upon
the campfire of others
This lead to the multiple
independent discoveries of
disposable loincloths

Genghis Khan
personally refused to create
“campfire surprise”
because he preferred
the smell of camels



Barry G. Wick












Saturday, June 23, 2018

Tinkerbell Fascists


Rising above the castles of Washington,
winged beasts with their cannon wands
spray sparking red, white, and blue
fairy dust for all the media to marvel,
behind which, lies have only obfuscation,
midst the corpses of unemployed immigrants,
desiccated women of forced pregnancy,
the new babies to be slaughtered or starved
into the smiling skeletons of children,
bullet-riddled, laying upon school floors
or the dusty, bomb-scarred, oil-pumped plains,
as their puddling tears dry in sandy echos,
unhooked by a hypnotized-while-blind public:
who pray each evening to  their flat screens
in the hope that GODD will materialize
just long enough for them to crowd-cheer
His golden hair flying from the fans
placed for His closest media angels
that He excoriates to the knowing smiles
of those who pray to His heroic majesty,
unfazed by Zeuses like Eisenhower,
Grant, and Washington who could*
out-hero even the tiniest ghost riders
in pure, white, black-holed sheets festooned
with flaming blood-soaked crosses
marking the spot where dripping pussies
should be grabbed in public and adorned
with spinning, sparkling swastikas,
and a gun club membership card
entitling one, full, and free magazine fired
at the nearest scattering school children
who dare to imagine in their deepest thoughts
any liberal, democrat, or foreigner
who lives now or is a demon of the past
who failed to wave a ripped Old Glory
and give the Bellamy it's proper angle
above the bleeding putti who encircle
His gold coif that sparkles from this new Son.
Crawler Headline:  America drowns in fairy dust.

Barry G. Wick

*Author's Note:  Eisenhower shook hands with Spain's fascist leader Franco, Grant wasn't well-liked by Native Americans(under-statement), and Washington had more connections to Great Britain than King George III....!

Glances


Across the space
between us
our eyes meet
your dark deep eyes
that need to be filled
with this love
that only an empty man
can generate
and I'm smitten
such a smile
and wishing
my fingers through
your black hair
There are many years
between us
does it matter
does it


Barry G. Wick
2018

Sunday, June 17, 2018

Sunday Morning with Joni Mitchell


We're on the sofa together
She's in Memphis
with the other Egyptians
who built pyramids of music
She says she's sitting in a cafe
and I remind her it's my couch
in sight of corn and beans
in Iowa

I'm thinking about the news
and how I don't miss it
glad the currency of daily life
doesn't gloss over my eyes
Ha—current-cy
I don't know what has happened
in the last four days
and this morning
the world still full of fools
fighting for everything
“A woman must have everything.”
I know about that Joni

I'm beyond it all now
peeking from time to time
into the abyss
falling more slowly
than I did years ago
when I was a young journalist
in college during the war
following the march against
in the middle of wheat and lentils
in the great Palouse
Up and down the hills
filing as it happened reports
just like Edward R.
did from London
except I'm not on CBS
just the college station
wired into the dorms
with 8 listeners
who are reading Shakespeare
and Mao in the same language
from red books
I'm preparing for the day
a cop and a bunch of people
are murdered in Gillette
northeast Wyoming
when I go to the hospital
and am the first to report
live on the air
the policeman is dead
the killer is dead
and a pile of others
as this nut drove
across the town
spreading death
as easily as I put
the eggs on my toast
and the sweet stuff
in my black coffee

You still with me Joni?
You're fading out
as the summer heat of Iowa
makes a cloud fall
out of my freezer

Joni is traveling again
and I think of all the miles
between wherever
that are now so much
wasted dinosaurs
as we head for the end
of civilization that was never civil
as I stare at the changing screen
pictures that change every minute
three boys wrestling
in bright red breechclouts
at some rendezvous of trappers
their parents probably
What do you think Joni
of my tie-dyed loincloth
Yeah nobody cares
as she says “I'll be thinking of you.”
Oh sure babe
She's in her 70s
I'm in my 60s.
“Will you still love me
when I get back to town?”
I'm too young for you sweets
and if I'm looking at guys
in their malos
on some Pacific isle
then you might not be
the right person to cuddle with
“I've got the blues inside...”
Sorry, I know you had your heart set
on me as your man
We both sigh
me in my lonely Iowa
and you in your British Columbia
singing to an old nobody
writing some words
on a glowing screen
ready to get another cup
of Folgers
the only coffee I can afford
and you probably
with those beans
shit from the ass
of some odd cat
expensive beans
ground by natives
with their carved-rock
mortars and pestles
sitting in their loincloths
or is that poi

It doesn't matter any more
I don't know what's going on
as you travel
spilling your words
in ones and zeros
from my computer's CD player
hissing at summer lawns
please my dear
be nice
at least I'm wearing something
and you're jumping
out of my speakers
as naked a poet
as there ever was
while we're kissing in cafes
kissing on main street
rollin' rollin' rock and rollin'

 Barry G. Wick

Saturday, June 9, 2018

Poem of Summer 2018




Call me Sebastian
It's a honest name for me
since grandfathers
back in time had that name

Tennessee Williams wrote the play
the movie
Suddenly Last Summer”
identifying the dead Sebastian Venable
as the major character
we see without his face
late in the movie
He has no face
yet we know he likes boys
and he's getting older
he's getting older
a bad sign for gay men

Cousin Catherine
now replaces mother Violet
for Sebastian
in his travels
to procure for him

To Mrs. Venable
Sebastian
is the be-all end-all stylish poet
His last trip to Cabeza de Lobo
with Catherine
he gets eaten by crowds
of boys driving him to the top
of the highest hill in town
It's a fag-bashing sure enough

There I was sitting in the back
of a Pontiac station wagon
at the Pines Drive-in
at a young age
with only my mother
in the front seat avoiding
my father for the night
to see this movie
and I stared
at the tight swim suits
on the beach boys
as Elizabeth Taylor
recounted her character
Catherine's terrors
the summer she escorted
Sebastian on his travels
in place of his mother Violet
Catherine suffers
post-traumatic stress disorder
as a result of what happened
to Sebastian
and says horrible things
Violet wants cut out of her mind

Sebastian didn't write
his poem of summer
according to his mother Violet
because Catherine
could not give him what he needed
lots of hot boys to stimulate him
they way he needed stimulation
Violet Venable wants
a lobotomy for Catherine
because she tells the truth
ooowwwieee
Violet lost her ability to attract
so she blames Catherine
for no Poem of Summer
to have been written by
Sebastian who writes
one poem a year
in summer

My mother was my Violet
dragging me around town
to the dress shops
the fabric stores
the shoe stores
her dress maker's
chin wags with her friends
baby sitters ad infinitum
the local television station
to the piano teacher
and put tears in my eyes
demanding I practice
refusing my desire to play baseball
putting me on every stage
and local television show
to play

I hid in the trees
to hide from you Violet
Any self expression
on my part
any outburst at school
was met with shame
shame shame shame
I treated girls
with great courtesy
polite courtesy
mustn't touch them
must treat them as untouchables
like your all-powerful mother
who trained you
from the age of four
to be a slave
to her desires
to eventually write the poems
that were never written

Get me a lobotomy mother
to take away all these memories
of not knowing who I was
of not knowing what I wanted
of only knowing what you wanted
of growing old now
an old queer
with no one who loves me
who kisses me on every occasion
I turned everybody away
who loved me
because I was suppose
to love only you mother

I'm far away in my own
Cabeza De Lobo

Here endeth my Poem of Summer
now let the boys eat me
Here's a bottle of hot sauce
and a tub of potato salad

Barry G. Wick
May-June 2018

Monday, June 4, 2018

Leafless and Loving


Let us remember
that each sex
has skirmished
or warred
against the image
of each other's bodies

Men owned magazines
ad agencies and more
that presented an image
of women
that wasn't the reality of them
The image of “bullied” women
was always created by men
who were governed by doctrines
founded in other nations
by men who subjugated
their partners
writing rules
that all men should follow
rules that have followed men
to the new world that now
looks strangely old and outdated

Women also decided
that men could not be men
proud of their bodies
as they are
much as they opposed
native American men
from wearing only loincloths
into western towns
without first wearing
red long john underwear
red supposedly being
the color of their skin
Men have been “cowed”
into passing laws
against themselves

Every image
of Adam and Eve
is a lie
since leaves obscure
of what each
is most proud
and never at liberty
to reveal

We can vote
but we can't be equal
(just let that sink in)

These are just a few
elements of the war
between the sexes
By denying the other sex
permission to be themselves
each loses their hegemony
in an endless and useless war

Each sex has become
a forest of frosted branches
trees without the leaves
of a following spring
covered in sack cloth
and the ashes of war
Ashes from the leaves
hastily grabbed
to cover the “embarrassment”
of having eaten an apple
told by an obviously male god
to be poisonous
to the good order
of “his” garden

The sackcloth now comes
in bolts from China
India and Indonesia
but that's a different poem

But it does bring us to
the topic of clothing
which is why god
made winter
to rob Adam and Eve
of leaves
so they'd have to get
their clothing
from the Salvation Army
Goodwill Industries
St. Vincent d ePaul
and Filene's Basement
giving rise to the argument
between them
that Adam could
cover himself
with any old rag
but that Eve
had to wait
for the fall fashions
It only made sense
to her
but she ended up
getting
Yves Saint Laurent
since his first name
sounded like hers
despite her inability
to read the tag
tags she saved
to put in her own
hand-made clothing
so her friends
would be wowed
Her clothing was limited
due to the restrictions
Adam placed on her
household budget
From that stems
all the anti-women crap
that men put out there
The truth is that Adam
got tired of weaving cotton
and cleaning sheep's wool
and good-lord
have you ever tired to
coral silk worms
He appealed to god
to help him with the worms
to which exclaimed
'For that kiddo
you'll need leaves
and I'd like you two
to suffer for a couple
of cold winters
No dice'

Adam didn't understand
the dice reference
so Adam invented them
and god got good and pissed
at all the gambling
going on the garden
which was the real reason
he expelled them from the garden
Seven come Eleven
just didn't sound
like a good beginning
for a prayer

Barry G. Wick