....Collected Poems...of Wayne Noone
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_______________________________________________________ Lt Fuller is Wounded A whitworth bolt is roughly the size and shape of a large seed cucumber. I think a piece of one's what hit me just below the knee. My good friend Lt Isaac Plumb come to visit me, said he seen me fall. Said he yelled "Uncle Fuller, that's good for sixty days!" Genl Barksdale Falls Bring me water Cold water I am to be reckoned with Member of congress under Pierce and Buchanan Oh you Yankees When I am well I am a great lover Of water And now I am all shot To pieces and burning With fever, I must Have cold water I can't set up Let that lad Administer water With a spoon Oh you will see You Yankees when Genl Ewell comes up Upon your rear Send that boy over here Getting Older Your flesh, heavier, so warm, still sits in my hand. Still gets rosy with a smack. Your hair, still thick, curtains your face as you bend. Your eyes still make me dizzy. We're older, not better not worse. Let's be those for whom getting older tickles. A Children's Poem His name is Bug-eye Blast-off, least that's what we call him, cause there he is, with those big swollen eyes, more like two poached eggs bulging out his sockets, looking all around nervous like. And he's always last one on the bus right before it hits West End and zeros into town. Everybody's always happy when he climbs on board, that big old salamander, cause we know that now the fun can really start. Oh, but poor Bug-eye, seems the graphics firm where he works is threatening lay-offs, he's been under a cloud since August. Still, it will be OK, we know he'll come bouncing back, why wouldn't he, throwing around those eyes, climbing aboard, last one, like always, on the bus. Port Authority He hits the three-way a second before you. Port Authority. And he slowly cruises down the hill. He's in no hurry, he's got you now all you can do is look at his big square ass and suck the black smoke. Takes forever to make the left onto Provost, no turn signal, read the ad on his backside while you wait. You've got one chance to pass as he pulls onto 51, but he hogs both lanes till he's got the speed to block you out, gotta slam the brakes and tuck tail behind again. But on the left to 88 traffic's all backed up and you know a little shortcut that runs parallel and you've got your shot. You pass, glorious, alongside as you head up the alley and freedom. And you look over at him looking at you impassive, and he's every cop, every Trent Lott, and you know you haven't won, you can never win, but every so often you can pretend you've done a little damage in return. The Cats Don't know if he first pushed past the screen because he saw the cat, or if he only saw the cat after he stepped outside, but the fact is the cat was there, in the garden on the side of the house, and he saw it, and how this came about is only important for matters jurisprudent, because afterwards had you asked him he would have told you it was the cat lured him. She was shy at first, looking at him for just a breath, then bolting, but he coaxed her back with milk and treats and soon she was there each morning, and along with her her kindred, till they numbered close to a score. Each morning it was his joy to feed them: saucers of milk and pet food, and even pork he had ground fresh at the Foodland. But a change came, in increments: how the feeding became a burden, the mewling grating on his nerves, the sensation of them pushing their sleek fur against his legs filled him with a loathing and left him appalled he had packed his yard with these insistent and demanding monsters, till he could not breathe and could scarcely leave his house. And when he shot them, and did away with poison the few that had survived, all that was left for him was the sound of wind rattling the dried garlic stalks in the garden, and a strange tingling in his spine. The Whitening of Jennifer Lopez You remember her, hip-hop pop queen J-Lo diva of BET with the great can and paramour of Puff Daddy P Diddley? Well, now she prefers "Jennifer" or just "Jen," cause she's linked up with white bread drunk Ben Affleck, Matt Damon's prettier dumber half, and as I write this she's sitting in a tub of Clorox straightening her hair and planning ways to anorexersize mucho inches off that delicious derrière. Her next film will cast this would be debutante with protoaryian Ralph Fiennes, and by then we imagine she'll be wearing pillbox hats ala Jackie O and crossing her legs demurely at the ankles. Oh where is the little Hispanic girl from Brooklyn we grew to love? And speaking of love, I'm completely queer on David Guest, Liza's better half. I could stare at him all day. I think he's an alien. This Christmas I This Christmas I As a ghost might feel watching the candles and the blue lights Whispering Too late. Wild nights! Wild nights! Were I with thee, Wild nights should be Our luxury! Futile the winds To a heart in port,- Done with the compass, Done with the chart. Rowing in Eden! Ah! the sea! Might I but moor To-night in thee! .........by Emily Dickinson Poem for Emily Dickinson EMILY, were I to throw you down And truss you up with wire Would you twist and try To tear away or Would you hold my fire, allow My wire to sink in deep? Would you with my body let me Press my weight upon you Keep you to the ground and feel My wet breath near your mouth Move your thighs still Free in rhythm with me Emily tell me Would wild nights be our luxury? Dream On Song Long to be a Berryman, me, why not? Surely Henry huffed, and I can too; I drink enough. Got all the designer drugs, hell, all he had was gin and thorazine. Don't tell me that my cracks are in the wrong places, that I haven't the tremolo of that skinny old crow. I'll go to Dublin, grow a beard, you'll all see if need be, I'll even take the bridge, sweet Stacia mine. On To Page 9 .............. Return To Other Poets This site sponsered by 
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