WAYNE F. BURKE - POEMS

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has appeared in a variety of publications (including Scarlet Leaf Review). His three published poetry collections, all from Bareback Press, are WORDS THAT BURN, DICKHEAD, and KNUCKLE SANDWICHES. His chapbook PADDY WAGON is published by Epic Rites Press. He lives in Vermont.

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                                      Quebec
 


The Schwartz brothers owned the
Sporting Goods store
where Grandma did business
even though they were Jews
and Jews were no good
because
Grandma said
they were not modest
(were not allowed on the beach
in Quebec where she lived as a girl
there was a sign NO JEWS)
but the Schwartzie's sold good stuff
plus they liked Grandma because
she paid all her bills on time,
sent them out as soon as they arrived;
one of the brothers was dour as an undertaker
unsmiling with a blue closely shaven face
the other, bald one, made wise cracks out the side
of his mouth
the side his cigar was not plugged into;
I liked the wise guy best
and did not care if he was Jew or what
I liked the smell of the leather of the ball gloves
and the rubber of the bicycle tires
and the fumes of the stogie too.
 
 
 
                                          Feed
 


on nights she forgets to feed me
I go into her bedroom
and slap her face
until she awakes
some nights even after she wakes
she rolls over
and goes back to sleep
on those nights I head-butt her
until she gets up,
the dirty slut.
Some nights, though awake
she falls asleep again at the table
in which case
I rub my parts against her
and give her little licks
and if that does not do the trick
I bite the bitch
which usually works
gets her moving to put
food on a plate
and the plate on the floor
where I can reach it,
and then the lovely girl
returns to bed
where I will join her
later.
 
 
          The Brown Chair
 

my ass sinks to the floor in this chair
I have sat in for years,
slept in for weeks,
a horrible brown and stained chair
worth $10 dollars at a lawn sale
maybe less
but priceless to me
I miss it whenever I am long gone,
too busy to sit;
I have gone to Africa in this chair
have fought the 2nd World War over again in this chair
tried to have sex with a girl in this chair;
I wonder if I will die in this chair,
should probably get up and
out of this chair,
go and sit somewhere else
or stand
maybe walk around
go somewhere I cannot get to
by chair,
wherever that is.
 
 
 
                                          Piels
 


my beer was Piel's Real Big-Mouth
Draft
the bottles shaped like hand grenades
the opening a half-dollar sized
hole
like a little pond
I could take a dip in
to cool off
or swim across
or float on my back
but it always seemed
that
by the end of the night
I was face down.
 
 
                                         Lights
 
​
We got stopped by cops
in a show of blue light
and a cop told my cousin
“step out of the car”
and made him walk a straight line
touch his toes
then his nose
and my cousin,
as shit-faced as he was,
somehow passed the tests
and we drove off
to the club
where we picked-up two girls
and then drove up to the mountain top
with them
and parked;
the wind howled around the car
non-stop
the lights of the town dully glowed
in the valley below;
my cousin and his girl went for a walk.
My girl had bow-legs
and a pigtail;
she unzipped my pants
then pulled hers off
then straddled me
as I lay back,
then she sat and guided me
inside of her and
moved up and down
and lifted off
just as I shot
and the wind wailed
and the car rocked
and down below the lights winked
on & off.