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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Monday, April 27, 2015

The Supreme Declaration of Speech (Dedicated to Citizens United and David Bossie with the perfect name)

Sometimes the couch
has just enough
to buy the day old bread
from a store whose employees
barely feed themselves.
There are days of only one meal.
There are days of none.
From the bottom of the nation
no voice is heard
because there is no money
to make it heard
above the broadcast shouts
of well-fed men
who pound the table
with their meaty fists,
to complain about
they who have sallow faces
or the most hated color
of today's empty stomachs.

Off to war go the children
of the poor
who send home bread
or themselves in a box,
to make the pockets bulge
of the hand slammers
and the lip vibrators.
More rockets than empty pockets.
More bombs and hungry moms.
More guns to stun the runners
who have no limousine
in which to preen.
Money speaks loudly
high above the proud
who force themselves
to beg a dime from orators
who shine so brightly
on the nightly news.
If lassitude is crass
it is because the masses
cannot speak above a thirsty whisper.
This sound echoes in an empty tin.
Thin is in and pants fall down,
hand-me-frowns from facial muscles,
racial tussles about which
the white men crown themselves
with high and mighty words
for a hungry child
in the wilds of dying city.
It's a pity they can't speak louder
with the freedom of speech
their fathers never earned
on the minimum wage.

Too many rules spoil a conversation
and so does too much money.

Barry G. Wick
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