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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Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Just Along the Highway

((a poem for those interested in Unidentified Flying Objects))

We stop and pick up some fruit
on our way to the western shore.
South Dakota is a long ways
from California, so we think.
Perhaps, that is what all the fuss
is about when people see
disks, tubes and triangles
floating soundlessly
through our beautiful skies.
Other folks, well, not really folks,
stopping by our planet to buy
some fruit, fill up on water,
whatever it is we have to offer.
Sure, they could have stopped
in an invisible mode,
but that's how they pay us
for the stuff they take from us:
cow parts, photos of our colons,
recordings of our screams,
cherished video of our astonishment
they get to play to their brood
of whatever the heck they are.
They've started a whole industry
of book publishing and photo swapping.
Experts collect a few coins
from personal appearances.
Old soldiers get to tell
what they weren't supposed to tell.
Autopsies, not withstanding,
are probably one of the many reasons
they don't set down
on some Washington lawn.
After all, who wants a cold or flu.
Have you ever seen one of those things
with chicken pox?
I suspect for them
it becomes condor pox
with a side of cow pox
from which they grow horns
that drop away when they're healed.
“Don't pick at your horns, dear.”
We've broadcast
dozens of Hollywood horrors
during which our hero
eliminates planetsful of oozing
monsters, which to them
seem more like neighbors
with whom to share a barbeque
of abductee. Yum.
Be sure to remove all those trackers
and little whatevers
you insert in our brains
through our noses.
We wouldn't want the kids,
if they are kids,
to choke on one,
necessitating a trip
halfway across the galaxy
to a hospital for care
where parking one of those
big triangles has to be
a serious problem.
You think the notes you get
are nasty when you park
your Chevy in two spots,
just imagine crop circles
in fifty million
languages and every word
describing the nasty
things they'll do to their colons.
It may also be a reason
they come to earth:
free parking with no wait times:
Cow Parts and Colon Pics,
open 24 hours.
We accept your
Universal Express Card.

Barry G. Wick
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