....Collected Poems...of Wayne Noone
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_______________________________________________________ Love Poem The man at the second floor landing of the apartment building on Greenlee who will kill her knows without knowing that there is a sameness to love and destruction, that both are equally without redemption. And the old men, who still use Brylcreme to wave their hair, and still trim their mustaches, still wear a sports coat to the bar, or to the track, remember. And you, with your soft face, looking at me. And me, looking, looking for that last look. Creative Process (For J. L.) Anymore it's pretty much constant and not a pleasant thing. Standing over the toilet urinating is a poem about the sound of piss hitting water. Looking at porn ography. Thing titled Maple Syrup about a guy sipping saliva from the ball he’s thrust into his lover’s mouth. Black caterpillar, Poem. Bird poem. Frying feeling at the top of the head and a puke feeling in the belly and you know its there, like its something you fall into, like there are waves or tendrils of smoke through which you walk. And there are other poems. Like when you remember the Ruger .357 in the drawer beside the bed. And you hold it in your hand and say this is just another poem. Monster Saturday short hard run at the Chartiers Valley middle school track. Warm up light jog around the parking lot, on a low rise nearby pass two six year olds wailing stones at a third trying to cover his head with his hands. Feeling pretty limber, start my first lap. Two teenage girls doing hurtler's stretches on the grass. Circle the track again, one of the girls coming up fast behind me. See her from my side glistening small breasts sheathed in sports bra bare midriff tight with muscle. Pick up the pace legs pumping she's right alongside effortless her honey colored ponytail bouncing with her stride. Pushing as hard as I can breath cracking, 45 years old and pack and a half a day pin prick jabs in the chest, was a time when I'da run her down like prey. Watch her glide past watch her tight rump rolling like laughter. When I stop she's already done, lapped me twice. "You run good," I say. Bent over catching her breath, hands on knees she looks up, hesitant smile. I show my teeth like Mack the Knife: "but you might run faster if you lost a little of that fat in those hips." Pat Wallace Pat Wallace standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes in a tee shirt and cut off jeans, my best friend's mother. Me, around twelve years old, sitting on the living room couch looking out into the kitchen at Pat's legs, feeling like butter in the sun. Firm tan meat jutting down from those cut offs to the pucker back of the knee then sloping to the tendon and the pink underbelly of her feet. Pat was fucking an enormous whale of a cop named Woody who was married but not to her. Pat loved to drink. She and Woody had this huge bottle of Seagram's with a plastic pump on top to pump out their whiskey. When Woody was with his wife Pat would cry and drink alone. I used to think that if Pat would drink enough one night I would come looking for my friend and find her passed out on the couch. I would roll her onto her belly and run my hands up those fine legs, work my hand up the underside of those shorts and squeeze her ass cheek then roll her back over. Her mouth slack and open, maybe her tongue lolling out. Pat's in her seventies now if she's still alive. I haven't aged a day. Not a Vietnam Poem Never was at Vietnam. Lottery stopped when I turned eighteen so this is not a Vietnam poem, just a speculation: Might have ended up one of those guys who were really good at it, spent my time tying up Saigon girls with piano wire and worn a ring of ears around my neck. Or I might have been scared so bad that I’d take the first op portunity to shoot myself with my rifle, though I understand the Army designed the M16 taking into consideration the distance in centimeters based on the National Average between the upper palate of the mouth length of a man’s arm or leg to the great toe, keeping the trigger just out of reach. Most likely I would have done my tour keeping myself full of as much dope and alcohol as I could lay my hands on. Which pretty much is what I did back here. Karen, You Are The first outburst of azalea, peach pie, the smoothest skin, the brightest eyes 7:25 a.m. Yesterday he spilled the baked beans all over the sidewalk, and today he almost hit me with a cart full of trays. He's an incompetent fool, my pity is wasted. Followed up by a senile old woman whose back's gone horizontal, great view of her shoes, and that's all. Making strange bird sounds; today it's "Achy Breaky Heart" in my head. Soon "the Lung" will sidle over, and I'll watch the flakes slip from his mottled skin, and the day begins... A Day In The Life Had lunch at Kenny B's 3 pancakes, 3 eggs ($5.59). Rich got stiffed, paid over $7 for a waffle and a piece of sausage. Coming back, big bomb threat at the Benedum-Trees on 4th Avenue. Cops everywhere, all blocked off. Rich and I snuck up behind a bunch of cops and saw them looking at an X ray of what they thought was the bomb. Cop dialogue: "If it goes off, it will take out all those pedestrians". Plan was, park the truck out front, put the bomb in a big tank that looked like a diving bell. Everyone kept asking me "what's going on?" A guy with one eye was particularly persistent. Whore Actually, it begins unofficially Thursday at 7 with a live call-in broadcast starring your dreamboat Scotty Hartwig. My shoulders are broader as is my double chin, and what I'd like to do to you, I think that you'd have trouble maintaining balance sitting on my chins. I love the memories we have together, for instance Mim - I remember his size 17 shoes which he left in the pews walking barefoot out of God's house crazy and bumping into him at a CoGos - his comment: "well, Fuck me!" I'll bet he's dead and why'd you have to go and say he's such a dreamboat... Bus Ride to Work She had a dust cloth in her hand when I caught her. Early fifties, tall long legs in a pair of cut-off jeans. Not bad, if you don't mind a few sags. I don't. Surprisingly cooperative, and me with only a roll of duct tape in my hands. Pulled her arms behind her, duct taped her hands palm to palm with a good cinch. Taped her elbows together too, as much as they would go. That elicited a squeal. The old bones aren't as supple as they used to be. Now the fun part: took that old dust cloth and crammed it in her mouth really fingered it in, till her jaws were prized apart and half a dozen loops of tape around her head to hold it all in, like packing a parachute. Really made the ol' gal's eyes water. My stop. Time to get off. On To Page 4 .............. Return To Other Poets This site sponsered by 
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