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, September 6, 2016


There are names on books
of who edited poems together
by this or that author
the editor sharing a life
that could not possibly
be understood in its entirety
not understood by the readers
who do not breathe
the same air
as the poet walks
in sandals or barefoot
in loafers or heels
The collected dust
on a poet's skin
would show where
the poet walked
but they do not sell
small vials of it
in bookstores
Collected hair
left by balding poets
isn't traded
at the supermarket
Old bills paid
by checks signed
might still exist
but few might collect
Empty bottles or bindles
don't seem to make it
to the auction
The last rays of light
that touched the poet's skin
have been reflected
in light seen or unseen
Exhaled breath
with droplets of moisture
traded to the air
from coursing veins
dissipate among the vegetable stands
on a distant street
in a town unnamed
in every line of poetry
or letter written to a friend
All we have are remnants
of inspiration
that deleted a moment
of awareness of everything
around the poet
long enough
for pen pencil
tapped keys or tapped keyboard
chalk or tip of burnt kindling
to set limited words
spelled in designed letters
of a thousand alphabets
onto something another
might try to comprehend
only to fail
this challenge
of crawling beneath the skin
to live one second
in awe or disgust
of a life for which
we are desperate

Barry G. Wick

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