Patron

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.

THANK YOU!

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)yahoo.com

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Friday, March 19, 2010

Cleaning The Fun Off the Walls

Cleaning The Fun Off the Walls


A sub-teacher called on me
to grow up
by taking me to a ditch
to see the city lights
to drink peppermint schnapps
on the outskirts
funny, he comes on to me
and I don't fully understand

I wasn't sure I was gay then
and he drove me home
so drunk I'm amazed
he made it up
and down
our road

And when I went
into the basement
reeling
stumbling
in a poisoned stupor
we each had a bottle
a whole bottle

and mother chastised me
guilt about her father
drinking himself to death
and then
the night
waking up
rushing weaving
to the bathroom
puking on the walls
the floor
everywhere

this ache is not music
this smell is not haute cuisine
these colors are not art
this mess was my first drunk
and I spend the day
cleaning the fun off the walls.


Copyright (c) 2009 by Barry G. Wick
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