The Poetry Of.
Wayne Noone............................
Glass in My Mouth: A Love Poem
Just another piss poor
poem
trying to write without
sentiment
trying not to sound like anyone else
resisting the temptation
to steal
from my betters
but the thing is
I’m afraid I’ve snatched away
from you
almost twenty years
(You could have done better)
and I have no words
but I want you to know
that I remember
like that day at Fort
Necessity red plaid hood
around your head
snow
in your hair
standing in the Peach
Orchard looking across the crowd
at you
dabbing your forehead
with a tissue in the heat
watching you
at a thousand dinners
animated
your food growing cold
first time you mounted
me first time I
was mounted
as I stared at your silhouette
ghost dog dancing
behind us
when my father
died
feeling your shoulder
against my side
as they turned him
off
how you throw your head
laughing against me
how you look at cows
or birds
how your smell and your skin still
make me drunk
maybe if I had more coffee
or maybe if I could
get this onerous jackass
in the cube next door
to stop droning about welfare
I could write the words
these are not the words
I have no words
these are the
things
I remember
and it is your birthday
and this after all
is a love poem
Tea Ceremony
A statue was placed
in Japanese times
carved in the likeness
of Sen no Rikkyu
Master of tea
so esteemed was he
by the populace
for the delicacy of his art
which displeased Lord Hideyoshi
and word was sent
to the venerable teaman
commit gentlemanly seppuku
or be executed
like a commoner.
So Rukkyu knelt in seiza
undid his tea robe
revealing the white robe
beneath bared his
abdomen
took his wakizashi
in his right hand
and as he gently
slipped the blade into his belly
he may of thought
of vast tea groves
or women, hair upturned
glancing through their lashes
as they pad mouselike in their tabi
or of water
neither strong nor
weak, neither wet nor
dry, neither deluded
nor enlightened.
Nonetheless he
departed only after
removing a length of
bowel
and sending it
to the Shogun
on a lacquered tray.
Creative Process
.(For J. L.)
Anymore
it's pretty much
constant
and not a pleasant thing.
Standing over the toilet
urinating
is a poem about the sound
of piss
hitting water.
Looking at porn
ography.
Thing titled
Maple
Syrup
about a guy
sipping saliva
from the ball he’s
thrust
into his lover’s
mouth.
Black caterpillar,
Poem.
Bird poem.
Frying feeling
at the top of the head
and a puke feeling
in the belly
and you know
its there,
like it's something
you fall into,
like there are waves
or tendrils
of smoke
through which you walk.
And there are
other poems.
Like when you
remember the Ruger .357
in the drawer
beside the bed.
And you
hold it
in your hand
and say
this
is just another
poem.
