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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Tuesday, August 16, 2016

The Day in Letters of the Alphabet

how much should be written today
would all of the letters fit here
like bits of rat on the tongue
beans in the pot not a day old
with onion sauce rice tomato seasonings
washed down with cheap tea
spots of day old syrup on a shirt
and a poorly executed sip of tea
leaving it's trail to the floor

some hellish horns blasting old music
that should be recognized
as violins fall to the ground
in a long scale to conclusion
these words could be ziptied
so only those with a clippers
could use them again on their pages
being bogged down for the next hour
waiting for the state to say this house ok

ask for the identification he says
deep inside the gray skull from Dakota
where stacks of buffalo supped grass
a window stuffed with air conditioner
plastic sacks filling the cracks
retard the voice in an idiot's glance
when words molded with rubber bands
squeeze outside their undyed cloth
oh brother save some in your pocket

that ache just lept from the hip
to roll around in the swirling a/c
listening to the bubbling air
in an orange fish tank with goldfish
too soon for another reduction
of opioid goo from the Afghan plains
where ink stains feather into cloth
the one dark spot with several others
from last night's invigorations

sunny skies for a festooned announcer
with aromas strung around the neck
boiled in that pot of beans and rice
to get the words to the page
through the end of the month
otherwise an empty Frigidaire
with Chinese fingerprints of mindlessness
where toothpicks sit atop pill bottles
ready to fall from grace upon the carpet

Barry G. Wick

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