Five Poems by Wayne F. Burke

 

(from) OUT OF MY MIND

 

told myself

"self

do not draw in 3 dollar notebooks

no more, draw

in a sketch pad

(though you have to lug one

around) you

ding-dong,

and not in a pocket book either

unless, of course

you want to carry one,

honey."

 

One number off

the lottery, the

story of my life

lately, an inch

shy, a dollar

short; because

how the planets line up

maybe,

or the way the goddamn

cookie crumbles,

or it is god, terrible

Yahweh, who

killed Job's children

in order to teach him a lesson

(but tell me--

 what lesson did the

children learn?).

 

 

Black tar parking lot

bisected by white

lines, stained with

artwork by Tapies

black on black,

oil splotches,

skid marks--

Franz Kline...

Shadows of buildings

cut squares

blacker than

asphalt.

 

 

Van Gogh the insufferable "fixer,"

who knew best, and was not slow

to let others know it: gave pointers

to his sister-in-law on how to raise

her son. Sent a steady diet of

suggestions to Theo on how to live

("do just what I've advised you"); ditto,

his sister Will. Like the lives of all the

"fixers," Van Gogh's life best described as

a "mess." The times people did allow

him to "fix" them--like the prostitute Sien,

whom Vincent tried to reform--he was

happiest. But when others rebelled (Gauguin)

or failed to take his advice, he became an

unhappy camper.

 

 

Got a booth

to myself

in the restaurant;

only the waitress

and, later, the

cashier to interact

with (unless the waitress

takes the check up);

I can talk to the other

seat if I want to:

"Hi, how are you?

"You look lovely in green leather."

I can write an Op-Ed piece

for the newspaper (fuck that)

or I can pour ketchup on

myself and pretend I was

wounded in Vietnam

(where I never been

though once ate 

in a Vietnamese restaurant).

 

 

sunset

 

Saint Peter's dome

going down

to yellow glow

of windows

across the lot and

yard and Great Wall of China

hedge,

like some muscled arm

that curls the road,

and over the cloud-tree

grove

a steel sphincter or splinter

or splint--whatever--

aimed across the brow

of twilight's far & near vistas

of Andean peaks and

rolling hills,

blue aquarium of

fishes

swimming in

bottled joy.

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published in print and online (including in Lothlorien Poetry Journal). He is author of eight published full-length poetry collections--most recently BLACK SUMMER, Spartan Press, 2021. He lives in Vermont (USA).