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 15, 2015


 (for G. S. Sharat Chandra)

When I went to college
I owned a large Zenith radio
from which the world
came into my walkout basement
beneath the old lady
who would fall on the floor
with a thump
that would make me look up
to my ceiling
covered in hippie Indian bedspreads

Sure I went up to call for help
Then back to the dungeon
where I'd listen to the radio
all night to hear the latest
on the Symbionese Liberation Army
and Patty Hearst from KNX in Los Angeles

Exposed pipe wasn't as lovely
as the block print colors
contrasted with the sound effects
recorded live on the scene
of gunfire and police interviews

Three windows kept me in touch
with the outside
One to the south that looked
out over the town
and two onto the parking lot
behind the building
at 300 North East Maple Street

How strange it is to now
look upon that building
and see the apartments
upgraded with shiny new appliances
across the nation inside my computer
looking for ghosts of a different time
when Simon gave me an acid dot
and I watched a Roman trireme
being rowed across the sky
That night at his Halloween party
The great Chandra would open
my mind to the world of poetry

So now I've come to his old grounds
to find my writing voice
as I hold my walker tightly
sliding around my mobile home
only wishing
someone could hear me
as a stumble
to fall upon the floor

As I lay there
will I see Roman ships
rowing across my ceiling
and hear gunfire from Los Angeles
or will I slowly sink
into the stupor of an acid trip
the brilliance of my ceiling
once again covered in block print tapestry
from his homeland around the world

As that has not happened as yet
I know the day is coming
as life winds slowly down
like the words of this dead poet
stuffed into unread books
or sparked across a screen
the explanations before his reading
by who and what
the future wants to hear
plain language
delicious as simple block prints
from that bearded dark skinned face

Barry G. Wick 2015

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