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 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: via Paypal. I thank those who support me one way or another.


Thank you to those who have contributed via Paypal to support my writing. My account at Paypal is the same as my email: rikwrybac(at)

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Friday, July 31, 2009

Medieval Journey

Medieval Journey

Heironymous Bosch
comes to visit from Chicago.
We drink. I'm tipsy.

He paints
the friends I used to know.
The devil in a dead tree
with death playing a lute.
A barrel runs on two legs
tempting me with brew.
The city burns in the background.
Lake Michigan with asses
hanging out over the side of a boat
smiling at the gay sun worshipers
on The Rocks
at the end of Belmont Avenue,
their pale horses drinking from the lake.

Plates of bloody food.
human-headed birds,
and scarlet women.
Probably drag queens
from North Halsted Street.

I suspect I am the monk
reading from the book
in the center of the scene.
I am praying for all of this
to go away or
wanting to join in the orgy
of delights
and kept away
by a painful conscience.
All the rest die except me
or am I already dead
upon my knees
refusing to live life
to its fullest.

Go away, Mr. Bosch
and leave
my city memories behind
like years of cracked varnish
on an old painting.

You know too much about me,
dear Heironymous,
and now you've told everyone
about me
and how my life was lived
on my knees
in a cloak
my walking stick ready to support
my last walk through
a world of sorrows.

copyright (c) 2009 Barry G. Wick
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