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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Thursday, July 1, 2010


(for B.L.)

The sun is bright
though the windows
of the bus
thinking of him on the edge
of his life breathing his last
between the curb and his room
a blur
as are all such minutes
when thoughts are elsewhere
used for useless imagination
or prayers that never go beyond
the deepest thoughts
a blur upon arrival
and there has been a change
as people unknown crowd
around this friend
who had a mask upon his face
the day before
and now no mask to hide
his faceless gray expression
to force breath into his lungs
pumping the mix of science
and hope into a body that fails
yesterday on his side
now on his back
his naked body flat
his mother says twenty minutes
have passed since
and where was I
and where was I
squinting through the glass
of a cross town bus
lost between work bills and family
when this violence ended
and the unmentionable lifestyle
and the unmentionable disease
became an unmentionable body
in an unmentionable hospital
on an unmentionable day
and I only mention this
to remind you
to bring it into your mind
that across the hall
from his room
another man screams
for the family who cannot
bring themselves
to visit what
they have put out of their minds
their perfect suburban godly minds

(mp3 file of Barry G. Wick reading this poem)

Copyright © 2010 by Barry G. Wick
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