from
OUT OF MY MIND
sinners
two
guys hauling a tarp
full
of leaves
from
the lawn of the
church;
a guy
at
each end,
the
tarp sagging
as
if a body
within--
a
church body who
died
for sins
committed--
the
lawn is swept clean
of
him,
of
whomever:
me,
you, some commandment-
breaking
bastard, or
the
guy
who
wrote 'em.
Sitting
on a park bench
in
the sun shine
as I
write
this
poem or
scribble
while
a guy
who
wants to borrow money
from
me
stands
nearby on a street corner
beneath
circling pigeons...
A
siren whines in the
distance
in
this instance
of
life
never ending,
amen.
Pick
up the words again--
like
a suitcase from the
terminal,
and
add,
subtract, revise--
no
one ever wrote anything
good
straight-out, or
I
never have anyway;
maybe
Shakespeare did
maybe
Kerouac
but
not me--
I am
no Bard
Beat
Daddio
or
Bawd
either.
Lawd,
no.
storm
the
darkness thickens
like
a plot
and
the river eddies, waiting
as
lights
of the laundry
flicker,
and
thunder
follows
a
scraggly scribbled bolt
of
lightning that sets off
an
alarm:
signal
to cover or
cower,
as
the
Luftwaffe crosses the channel
and
rain drops rap
like
knuckles
on
car roof tops.
Feeling
alone and
lonely,
can't make a connection--
it
hurts
the
pain upsets me,
I
get pissed:
look
around for someone
to
blame
and
decide on the waitress,
for
not being friendlier, not
giving
me a hug, or
a
kiss...
I
take a dollar off
her
tip; to teach
her...What?
I
stand on the roadside
staring
at cars
speeding
past, fleeing
from
me.
9
billion Years
the
sun only has
another
9 billion years
to
burn:
What
do we do when it
starts
to turn red?
Get
the fuck out of
here,
fly
to Mars maybe
until
it too burns,
and
then?
have
to tow the moon with us
and
launch that sucker
outward
until
the sun
cools
its jets
and
somebody
can
come up
with
some heat
and
light.
Wayne
F. Burke's poetry has been widely published in print and online (including in
LOTHLORIEN POETRY JOURNAL). He is author of 8 published poetry collections, a
collection of short stories, and the non-fiction work, HENRY MILLER, Spirit
& Flesh, recently (9-22) published by Cyberwit. net. He lives in Vermont.
So wonderful to see poems by Wayne!! One of my favorite poets. The end line in SINNERS is perfect. First laugh I’ve had all day. Thank you!!
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