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, January 18, 2013

To That Place Where Sleeping Dogs Lie

Most of the people
of the world
are where they are:
wanted, needed or not.

Some of the people
go where they want to,
wanted, needed or not.
Pushy, pushy, pushy.

The most difficult decisions
surround going where
we are both wanted and needed.
The two are not the same.
We can go where we are wanted
but not needed;
its an excess thing.

We can go where we are needed
but not wanted:
its a matter of they're pride
and butting-in
and we become imperialist dogs.

Poets are the least wanted,
the least needed,
except perhaps
by colleges and universities
who want to look posh.
“We have a poet.
He's even had his shots.
The department chair
grooms our poet once a week
and even picks up his poo.”

I serve no function
except to translate other poets,
teach word games to children,
play with my sand pile of words,
and try to make others think
about what I think about,
edit the little magazine
where I can chew up other poets
with my rejection canines.
Yes, I am a thought imperialist
doggedly barking up your brain stem,
scratching away the paint
on your outside doors.
I track in mud on your floors
you neatly maintain
to keep yourself from falling
into depths inside your hidden house.
I dig up your flowers
in those awful things
you call the poem you write.
I chew your invisible shoes
to bits
in the hopes your feet of clay
will be forced to walk
in more common soil.
I beg to be fed.
I want to be a fat, lazy poet.
I'll look at you with sad eyes
hoping you'll throw me a bone
I can gnaw on in the afternoon.
You can be common:
a human in your comfortable chair
reading a newspaper
or surfing the Internet,
me in my carpeted corner
chewing, grinding, gnawing.
I'll even try to sleep in your bed
to make you toss and turn,
my poem breathing heavily
through your sleepless mind.

In the morning I jump at the chance
to be taken for a walk.
If you're possessive about my words
you'll hold them tight to you
with a leash.
Careful, I can pull quite hard:
I'm a damn big poet
and I'm poorly trained...
perhaps, even impossible
to control.

If you repeat my words to others,
I'll run free in parks and fields
peeing on everything taller
than an adjective.

Throw the ball.
Let's play.
I'll woof a few times
to get your attention.

woof woof

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All Rights Reserved

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