....Collected Poems...of Wayne Noone
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_______________________________________________________ Driving through South Carolina you're listening to WAGI, your home for country as y'all know the one and only George Jones is coming to Gaffney this Friday an we have some tickets for the first caller to tell us George Jones' middle name we're takin' your calls hello, this WAGI, 105 in Gaffney do you know George Jones' middle name Earl no, not Earl hello this is WAGI Lee no, that's not it possum Well, that's George's nickname but not his middle name ol' possum we've got some tickets to the George Jones concert this Friday at the Peach Festival for anyone who can tell us George's middle name we're takin your calls Robert nope Paul no, that's not it this is WAGI poontang what this is WAGI, do you know George Jones' middle name George no its not George let's go to a break an when we come back we have those tickets for anyone who can tell us George Jones' middle name it's the Greer Garden Center 1025 Chesnee Highway Gaffney, seed, implements the Greer Garden Center for all your garden needs coming Friday, July twentieth to the Peach Festival Lake Whelchel one night only the legendary George Jones in his only South Carolina appearance this summer the possum George Jones tickets on sale now don't miss it you're listenin' to powerstation 105 WAGI your home for county this is Chuck Ramsay we're givin' away tickets to the George Jones concert this Friday to anyone who can tell me the possum's middle name here's a hint its the same middle name as our station manager Dennis Fowler Dennis and George have the same middle name hello this is WAGI what's George's middle name Lee nope, not Lee Roger no Arvil nope Lee no, not Lee Wayne sorry, no Glenn say again Glenn that's it, you got it George Jones' middle name is Glenn what's your name Etta well, Etta you have won your self some free... Ghost Of John Bell Hood Ghost of John Bell Hood or How I Spent My Summer Vacation I'm standing outside the Peachtree Mall near Columbus GA having stepped out the backdoor of the Ruby Tuesday's for a cigarette and I'm wobbly on my feet with four days of fever and the chills and the four Advil haven't quite kicked in. I'm looking at the rolling behinds of young southern womanhood for a barometer of just how sick I am nothing, that's bad, so I'm back inside eating something with pasta and shrimp like every other something up north except they serve sweet tea and talk funny and after some blurry conversation we're back at the Best Western this is right next to Alabama mind you so the heat is southern hot but I've got two blankets on plus the comforter and sheet everything kind of gray and drifting and at one point I'm up and at the foot of the bed stands Hood there of course because he had something to do in my mind with Atlanta and Franklin the Lost Cause and the fall. His twin button uniform is twined sagebrush and kudzu sleeves braided spanish moss epaulets of prickly pear medals cross his chest holding faded cameos of Wallace and L.B.J. Medgar Evers and Earl K. Long. He's standing there in our prefab motel room, I know this doesn't make sense but I have a fucking fever so bear with me, pointing with his good arm and saying y'all think its about the niggers but its not. Its about you you fat assed hunky lying pale under those sheets with your swollen belly and flaccid cock, its about how y'all just fold everything into your own fat. I'm looking at that long face and mournful eye thinking about the chills and the long drive home tomorrow and how I've never even tried one of their peaches. Wildlife Report Carnegie Pennsylvania The skunk is gone from these parts haven’t seen one in many years and calm snakes, now vanished were very common. I remember as a boy sitting with my father on lawn chairs in the back yard as a skunk sidled quietly up alongside. I was ready to bolt but my father whispered sit still he won’t hurt ya. Skunk sat like a housecat gently licking the chocolate from a Snickers wrapper Dad had placed at his feet great plumed tail black and white swishing against his leg. But the skunk is gone, replaced by a new variety of indigenous fauna. Herds of deer, sometimes as many as seven or eight on the hillside behind the house. Wild turkeys, a large ungainly male followed by two females. Red fox capering like a dog and tossing grubs into the air and, most recently a big goshawk sitting on the mown lawn judgmental with hooked beak and fierce yellow eyes. But I miss the skunk and the snakes of my youth garters and greensnakes and the warted toads I often found among the stones of cemeteries. These, somehow were the simpler beasts not better but different feeding from a more hopeful landscape. July 7th 1863 Dear Uncle Russ, I am in a bad way, Having been shot in the side. But the Surgeon says it will heal. The battle here was terrible And I hope I won’t see such again. They have put us in a church And attend us when they can. Tom Oliver, you remember him from Kierner’s, Did not fare well. He was shot through the bowels And in terrible pain. I tried to get some comfort for him And gave him sips of water from my cup. This morning they moved those of us Not going to die. I could not say goodbye to Tom. Just told him I was going. He sat up sudden, worried Did I want my tin cup back. I told him no, I’d try to find another. On Insanity and the Nature of the Poem Worked in a psych hospital for seven years so I know crazy. Lots of people go in those places, bipolars, borderline, depressions major and minor, dysthymia, phobic, obsessive compulsive. People are people and these are just names. But crazy is crazy and means one thing: dangerous. Patients on the floor see em first and shy away. Staff learns real quick not to turn their backs. Crazy is about the nurse who got her eye kicked out while huddling under a desk when the techs inadvertently allowed one to slip into the med room. Or the guy who got brained with a bedpan back when the State Hospital was still using stainless steel. I’m out for my morning jog before dawn, five am. Used to be a run, now it’s a jog, knees and back are shot. But I creak along six laps to the circuit around my neighborhood. Full moon is shining I’m on lap number one and I see someone weaving around in the shadows. Lap number two and I get a better look. He’s moving funny apelike big guy with long arms and he starts bellowing Uhnn, at, at, ahh. And the bell goes off and I think Crazy. It’s the third lap before I know he’s looking for me. I’m working on a strategy. Probably can’t outrun him Crazy can be fast so I’m thinking to hit him in the throat as he comes up on me. But the weird thing is I notice as I form my plan that this poem is coming together in my head, that I’m writing this as I’m running about to get the shit kicked out of me. And the words are lining up I tell myself to concentrate get ready but the poem is right there with me As I’m there I’m here writing it down its already finished story over and told. I think that if this guy gets me There won’t be no poem, I need to knuckle down, but its still there running right along side. And I realize this: that poetry is about getting away, that in the end the poem is nothing more than the aftermath. Coon Hunting I was young and drinking, took it in my head to go coon hunting with my buddy Mark the friend of my youth. We had no dogs or hats. Just an old Eveready flashlight, a fifth of Seagram’s, and my father’s single shot .22. I carried the rifle, Mark was the hound. We finally spied a coon, As it turned out a big mama trailing a litter. I yelled tree ‘im! and Mark ran off whooping and waving. Coon shot about thirty feet up an old oak, Our flashlight too dim to penetrate the thick foliage in the dark. So I’m shooting blind, loading and firing into the leaves. After about twenty rounds of bullets and whiskey we hear a shrill cry like an owl and a ghost, and down through the branches comes the coon, big as a small bear or so I recall, hits the ground Bounce and pops up on its hind legs snapping and coming at me. I’m fumbling to reload the rifle and the bitch looks to be the size of a grizzly and its charging me and I hear a yell and out of the corner of my eye I see ol’ Mark with a rusty old pick he found somewhere running at the thing. He whaps it Right in the throat stops it cold and I’m all shaky, reload the rifle about seven times and empty into the inert form. Up in the tree The reflective eyes of her young Look down. We were going to eat the coon. Well, we never did that. We skinned it, But the skin went bad. I quit drinking a few years later. Mark didn’t and we drifted apart. Haven’t seen him for years. I imagine we’ve both suffered some Since then. Lingering He is over there In the adjoining cube. I hear him creaking about occasionally stirring his coffee. He sleeps twice a day around ten in the morning and soon after lunch snoring loudly. His cough is mayonnaise cracked with a stick. Gray flecks gather on his nose. I hear him now as I write this messing with cellophane unwrapping a sandwich checking his phone for messages there are rarely messages sighing and saying to himself OK. He is gossamer and filament a spiderweb. Hex If God would look inside my bathroom He’d reward me with an outpouring of worms and roaches. If He would look Inside my life He would not notice. Nothing to forget of nothing even to remember. If He would look toward you I’m afraid His love would carry you away. Each day I fend Him off. But at night stars are the stamen of great black flowers drooping down. Sick In bed 15 hours rendered down in my own ooze Went outside and let the sun crack my head 3 small ants roaming my bare feet I killed them all Not yet I said On To Page 5 .............. Return To Other Poets This site sponsered by 
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