Patron

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 work...like 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: rikwrybac@yahoo.com via Paypal. I thank those who support me one way or another.

THANK YOU!

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)yahoo.com

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Friday, April 1, 2016

Lobster in the Pines

It was the only place
I could think as a child,
which was a time
of confusion.

My Father was addicted
to optometry, scotch, golf,
socializing, telling jokes,
his own masculinity,
and proving he knew
more about everything
than you. Oh, and Nixon.

My Mother was addicted
to singing, clothes, fabric,
reading, spending money, socializing,
proving she was
more feminine than Jesus,
and dragging me
to shoe stores, clothing stores,
fabric stores, and choir practice.

My Brother was addicted
to reading science fiction,
math, silence, and auto mechanics.
It was the only way he could
deal with our parents.

I was addicted to confusion,
trying to please my mother,
and wondering why
my father sided with her
when she said I shouldn't
play baseball because
it would hurt my hands.
I was nine and crushed.
So I further became addicted
to food, an opaque shell,
sex, marijuana, alcohol,
writing, lying, and shame.

My addictions
have worked well to this day
which keeps my children,
my friends,
and anyone I might love
guessing.
Nobody cracks
my hard shell,
which is why
I am a crustacean.

They should throw me
in a boiling pot
when I die
and have a beach party
with beer and salad,
somewhere in the pines,
which isn't a beach party
so all the guests
can be confused.



Barry G. Wick



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