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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Friday, August 12, 2016

The Reclining Magician

Behold! The Reclining Magician!
who lays upon his divan
involved this very hour
in a prestidigitation befitting
the greatest of the wizards
sans smoke sans audience
full of gasps and amazements
yelled or spoken under the breath
in a shock so as to make
their jaws drop suddenly
their breathing stops
with one great inhale of regard
knowing full well or even half well
what has just been seen
that exceeds
tops anything
seen before this day
including births and deaths
the topplings of great buildings
the shaking of the universe
the galaxies stunned
their starry pates exploded
clustered brains of primordial goo
having plopped
upon a heavenly ground
waiting for the exhale
that fails to explode for endless time
the invisible audience tumbles
from their floor-bolted seats
upon the sugared floor
gum-stuck fingers
dragging the seats with them
row upon row falling
toward the mystical stage
in bone-crunching silence

The Reclining Magician
puts down his book of spells
tosses his finger-worn implement
an ink-filled wand
of universe-founding creations
as sweat-beaded hands
reach for a damp
wilted towel




blows his nose

Barry G. Wick

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