...........................................................................................................................................
The Poetry Of.
Wayne Noone.................................................
Unction
It is three a.m. when he arrives at
the Virginia Manor Nursing Home.
He knows the tan brick, the green walls,
the smell - he has been here before.
He wears a black suit, a clerical collar.
His hair is mussed - he had been sleeping.
His age is indiscriminate. It does not matter,
he is merely a Son of Man like you.
He goes to the Nursing Station, is directed
to the room. There is only a pale florescent
light above the bed. The woman lies
on her back, mouth wide, cataract eyes
staring at the wall behind her.
He stands at the foot of the bed for a minute,
turns to tell the nurse. There is a mistake,
he has come too late, the Sacrament is for
the living, not the dead.
He hesitates, then goes to the door,
shuts it silently, returns to the bed.
He will not be disturbed. He stares
at the glance of light upon her cheek,
the smoothness of the skin stretched
across the cheekbone. He touches it,
cool, feels the skin dimple
against the bone. He looks at her eyes.
They had once been green.
He takes a finger and gently touches
the eyeball, feels it roll slightly.
A tear seeps from the eye and runs across
the cheek to the pillow.
He is fascinated with the mouth, toothless,
rounded in an O as if greedy for another breath.
Her teeth sit soaking in water
in a plastic container on the nightstand.
He puts a finger in her mouth,
twirls it in the cavity, careful to avoid
touching the flesh. He thinks how this mouth
when small and young sucked a nipple.
He wonders how much laughter sprang
from it, how many grunts of pain.
He wants to touch the tongue,
to draw it out, have it loll upon the cheek,
but he does not.
He takes a small leather bag,
removes the silver oil stock,
a Chi Ro etched upon the cap.
He opens the stock, takes out a ball
of cotton soaked in oil. Returning
to the mouth, he gently rubs the
cotton round the circle of her lips,
again and again,
spreading he oil and its sheen,
till the dry and crusted lips
glisten smoothly in the light.
Not a Vietnam Poem
Never was
at Vietnam.
Lottery stopped
when I turned
eighteen so
this is not a Vietnam poem,
just a
speculation:
Might have
ended up
one of those guys
who were really
good at it,
spent my time
tying up Saigon
girls with piano wire
and worn a ring
of ears
around my neck.
Or I might have been
scared so bad
that I’d take the first op
portunity
to shoot myself with
my rifle,
though I understand
the Army designed
the M16 taking into consideration
the distance in
centimeters
based on the National Average
between the upper palate
of the mouth
length of a man’s arm
or leg to the great toe,
keeping the trigger
just out of
reach.
Most likely I
would have done my tour
keeping myself full of
as much dope and alcohol
as I could lay my hands on.
Which pretty much is
what I did
back here.
On Insanity
and the Nature of the Poem
Worked in a psych hospital for seven years
so I know crazy.
Lots of people go in those places,
bipolars, borderline,
depressions major and minor,
dysthymia, phobic, obsessive compulsive.
People are people
and these are just names.
But crazy is crazy
and means one thing:
dangerous.
Patients on the floor see em first
and shy away.
Staff learns real quick
not to turn their backs.
Crazy is about the nurse
who got her eye kicked out
while huddling under a desk
when the techs inadvertently
allowed one to slip into the med room.
Or the guy who got brained with a bedpan
back when the State Hospital was still
using stainless steel.
I’m out for my morning jog
before dawn, five a.m.
Used to be a run,
now it’s a jog,
knees and back are shot.
But I creak along
six laps to the circuit
around my neighborhood.
Full moon is shining
I’m on lap number one
and I see someone weaving around
in the shadows.
Lap number two
and I get a better look.
He’s moving funny
apelike
big guy with long arms
and he starts bellowing
Uhnn, at, at, ahh.
And the bell goes off
and I think
Crazy.
It’s the third lap
before I know he’s looking for me.
I’m working on a strategy.
Probably can’t outrun him
Crazy can be fast
so I’m thinking to hit him in the throat
as he comes up on me.
But the weird thing is
I notice
as I form my plan
that this poem
is coming together in my head,
that I’m writing this as I’m running
about to get the shit kicked out of me.
And the words are lining up
I tell myself to concentrate
get ready
but the poem is right there with me
As I’m there I’m here
writing it down
it's already finished
story over and told.
I think that if this guy gets me
There won’t be no poem,
I need to knuckle down,
but it's still there
running right along side.
And I realize
this:
that poetry is about
getting away,
that in the end
the poem
is nothing
more
than the aftermath.
