Lights —a poem by Wayne F. Burke

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
and 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
then moved up and down
and lifted off
as I shot
and the wind wailed
and the car rocked
and down below the lights winked
on & off.

_
Wayne F. Burke's poetry has appeared in a variety of publications. His three published poetry collections, all from Bareback Press, are WORDS THAT BURN, DICKHEAD, and KNUCKLE SANDWICHES. A fourth collection, A LARK UP THE NOSE OF TIME, is due out in 2017. His chapbook PADDY WAGON is published by Epic Rites Press. He lives, or tries to anyway, in the central Vermont area (USA).

Radio —a poem by Wayne F. Burke

he arrives in the pocket park
off Main Street
carrying a radio
and says to me
"I will shut this off in a minute"
and I nod and say "alright"
and I return to the drawing I am making
in my notebook.
"Hey! You!" he says
and I look up:
he has gray hair and a black patch over his
right eye.
"I will shut this off in a minute."
"Fuck you."
"Oh, that's nice. I am trying to be a nice guy
and I run into a grumpy old man."
"Go somewhere else and be nice."
"I live here. Where do you live?"
"Get fucked."
"And the horse you rode in on."
He sits.
A vague presence in the corner of my eye.
I continue my drawing until I am done.
When I leave
will he say "have a nice day?"
And if he does
will I go berserk?
I hear him shuffle away but
he is back in half a tick
and sits
and sticks his nose into a book
and I get up and leave
and am glad
I do not hear his voice
but wonder too
if I really do look old.

_
Wayne F. Burke's poetry has appeared in a variety of publications. His three published poetry collections, all from Bareback Press, are WORDS THAT BURN, DICKHEAD, and KNUCKLE SANDWICHES. A fourth collection, A LARK UP THE NOSE OF TIME, is due out in 2017. His chapbook PADDY WAGON is published by Epic Rites Press. He lives, or tries to anyway, in the central Vermont area (USA).

Mort —a poem by Wayne F. Burke

Mort

where does the disgust
lead one to
oh Cèline,
tell us;
to death, right
like everything else,
on the installment plan
or off,
on Plan B
or C
or on no plan at all
just floating along
like a leaf on
the river
the River Styx
or maybe the Hoosic
that ran through my childhood
a pitiful trickle on the floor of
cement retaining walls built
by Army engineers
to hold the Great Flood
should it come again and
wash all disgust out
into the Sea of
Love.


_
*(note: Louis-Ferdinand Céline (Dr. Louis Ferdinand Auguste Destouche) wrote DEATH ON THE INSTALLMENT PLAN and other works.)

Wayne Burke's work has appeared in FORGE, miller's pond, and Northeast Corridor. He was poet-of-the-month in Bareback, 7-13.

Vane —a poem by Wayne F. Burke

Mr. Gootay, from India

owned a funky restaurant

on the backside of Harvard Square

in Cambridge, Mass., where

I worked as fry cook

putting out breakfast

and lunch

and sweating my hangovers

off

over a sizzling grill

that baked my brain

and made me thirsty again,

and one night after work,

in a bar in Central Square,

where Harvard does not live,

I got the shit beat out of me

and the next morning

I went to work wearing

mirror sunglasses and

band-aids on my face,

and Mr. Gootay asked

"what happened, Vane?"

and I said "I walked into a door,"

and Mr. Gootay,

standing with hands behind his back

and wearing a short white jacket

that made him look like a doctor,

said

"unbeLEAVEable!"

___

Wayne F. Burke has published two poetry collections, WORDS THAT BURN, and DICKHEAD, with Bareback Press, and has a third collection, KNUCKLE SANDWICHES, forthcoming (5/16).

Slog —a poem by Wayne F. Burke

Dried skin

on my scalp;

I rub different creams on

but none help--

48 hours of sunshine would cure

me

but there is no sun,

no moon either,

no stars;

a gray plenitude of

fog,

impenetrable sky of

sludge

dull as years spent in

cribs of

babyhood;

dirty as the dish rag

grandma used to wipe

the sink with;

northeast-gray the pigeons

fly through:

swilled soup-of-the-day

with glops of charcoal,

lead...I rub some on my

head and

it feels good

in a kind of strange,

and maybe sick,

way.

___

Wayne F. Burke's latest book of poetry DICKHEAD is available from Bareback Press and at amazon.com.

Maybe —poetry by Wayne F. Burke

I should have stayed

in the bar

drinking beer

until I fell off the stool

and died

on the floor

like Baldy Sherman

did

or else died out back

in a Room For Rent

like Buzzy

my Uncle's buddy

an ex-Green Beret

who left

nothing

but a carcass;

he came to the house one

Christmas day

and he and my Uncle

spent all afternoon

drinking beer

and smoking cigarettes

in the sun parlor

while trying to put together an electric train

set

that

like them

never got on track.

___

Wayne Burke's work has appeared in FORGE, miller's pond, and Northeast Corridor. He was poet-of-the-month in Bareback, 7-13.

Wayne F. Burke's Book Dickhead —Review by Editor Ada Fetters

Dickhead is a new book of poems from Wayne F. Burke, the author of Words that Burn. Dickhead is divided into six sections, each with its own theme, though there are subtle associations woven throughout. You may recognize “Lark up the Nose of Time,” which was published in Commonline Journal. “Lark” will give the prospective reader an accurate idea of the free-wheeling, down-on-his-luck, no-whining, zero-fucks-given attitude they can expect from Burke.

This is a multilayered work from a poet who is keenly aware of his own territory versus that of the Midwest or South or overseas but chooses to forge inroads anyway. He is an earthy pragmatist with a surreal inner life. He is an insomniac dreamer. He is not afraid of a fight but is conscientious of the few fragile things around him.

If Burke’s Dickhead seems paradoxical at times, that is because it is (in part) a coming-of-age story in which a rabbit must metamorphose into a snake. Two very different views of the world co-exist within the narrator. In one of the very first poems, "Mammals & Reptiles," the adults at the zoo watch a snake eat a rabbit. The narrator, then the child, “hops” to the cobra cage where a snake rears up and tries to strike him through the glass. “Showdown” elaborates on this theme. On the surface it appears to be an adolescent conflict, but it is also a rite of passage into the world of cobras. His uncle stares at him

black-eyed
with the glare that used to
pin me like a rabbit
but this time I glared back

By the time this rabbit-turned-cobra has become a “Sophomore,” he speeds “along snaky roads.”

This is a coming-of-age story, yes, but that is only one of the six sections. A potential reader may be tempted think that this review is like one of those irritating movie trailers that show all the best bits of a film before they have a chance to watch it, but I am merely offering a glimpse. There are so many intertwining themes to Dickhead that a reviewer can afford to explore a few of them while still leaving most territory uncharted. These include but are not limited to themes of alienation, loneliness, and a feeling of being driven, without knowing where or by what.

Burke’s work is infused with an East-coast attitude that is often misunderstood as posturing. Yet Dickhead is not bravado or an attempt to shock. It is a way of life. These are not generic poems with place-names inserted. They are rich with associations (some of them intentional, some of them unconscious) peculiar to this area. E.g. flinging his underwear into a river and picturing it found as a white fish: this may be an unconscious association to the “Allegheny whitefish.” This kind of deeply ingrained association means that Dickhead is about more than mere location. It is a mindset and a way of interacting with the world.

The first poem, “One,” sets the tone when the narrator sees

a guy who looks like me:
I clench my fists
in case he tries to
get tough

The narrator is not the only one with this habitual reaction to the appearance of himself in others. In “Old Buddy,” a long-time friend sees himself in the narrator’s mirror-glasses and readies himself to attack—the narrator chooses to defuse the situation by removing his glasses.

Paradoxically, while craziness is a way of life (“are you loco?” / “yes, I am”) the narrator is not a loose cannon. He silently considers whether or not he will have to break a man’s hand in “The Faamer.” When working as a security guard, he

“hoped no one would break in
and bother me”

This speaks more to wanting everyone out of his face than it to getting into the faces of others. Dickhead is full of paradoxical twists, wordplay, subtle associations and darkly funny atmosphere. In the poem “Buk,” the poet muses on being compared to Bukowski. Burke describes Bukowski as the

comedy-maker
crafty
sly
honest
liar

If a speaker's accent involves fat vowels (i.e. “Faamer” for Farmer), Burke sounds a lot like Buk.

___
The Author: Wayne Burke's work has appeared in FORGE, miller's pond, and Northeast Corridor. He was poet-of-the-month in Bareback, 7-13.

___
The Editor: Ada Fetters has been published in The Journal of Humanistic Psychology, Copperwood Review, Humanist Magazine, Niche, Tertulia, Debris, Poetry Pacific Magazine, Pink.Girl.Ink and most recently in Bewildering Stories.

Moving Man —a poem by Wayne F. Burke

I worked a day laborer's job

as moving man

and carried box after box

of books

out of a professor's house

and into a truck

on a tree-lined street

in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

The guy working with me

took it easy

and carried about half of what

I did

and at one point I told him

to get a move-on

and he looked at me like I was

crazy

and maybe I was

and late in the afternoon

the truck driver gave me shit

for slowing down

and I went off on him,

a screaming fit,

and he blanched

and said that he knew

what my problem was

and he handed me an extra ten

but

lack of money was not

my real problem--

the world was.

___
Wayne Burke's work has appeared in FORGE, miller's pond, and Northeast Corridor. He was poet-of-the-month in Bareback, 7-13.

chicken —poetry by Wayne F. Burke

chicken

the kid in the road
gets a funny look
on his face
when I don't slow
and he scoots aside
as I drive by
and I remember
Dicky
in the high school parking lot
early in the morning
how he hit the windshield
of my car
and went over the roof
and how I watched him
in the rear view mirror

drop
as if out of the sky
and how I stopped
and ran to him
asked if he was alright
and how he got up
and gave me a look
and began to limp
toward the school
and without even one
of his smart-ass remarks

and how I felt
during homeroom period
when I heard my name
announced
over the intercom
by the vice-principle
in his voice-of-doom.

___
Wayne F Burke has published two poetry collections, WORDS THAT BURN (2013) and DICKHEAD (2015), both issued by Bareback Press.

Naked | by Wayne Burke

the lion roared into

the hearts of everyone

in the theater

and the movie began,

whatever it was,

Elvis, or The Three Stooges,

or, once, The Naked Prey

which scared me silly

Friday night

I had gone to meet

my new Junior High School buddy

who did not show

and I sat by myself

in the dark

as half-naked dancing girls

shimmied on the screen

in coming attractions

that did not attract

but terrified me

I felt an aura of evil,

of adult-somethingness

beyond my 7th grade

understanding,

and then the movie

which featured the torture

and mutilation

of white men

who intruded into

darkest Africa,

and I got up and

went out to the concession

run by the theater-owner's kindly

mother

only she was not as kindly-seeming

as on Saturday afternoons

she seemed Gypsy-like and strange

dressed all in black

and part

of the evil

I had stumbled into

and was in danger

of somehow

becoming a part of.

___

Wayne Burke's work has appeared in FORGE, miller's pond, and Northeast Corridor. He was poet-of-the-month in Bareback, 7-13.

A Lark Up the Nose of Time | by Wayne F. Burke

we left Kansas after

the bars closed

Ron and Steve and me

in a station wagon

that I passed-out

in the back of

and woke

below a huge steel arch

high above

like a gate to heaven,

but it was Saint Louis

which we bombed through

all the way to Daytona

and got a motel room

on the beach

and sat indoors for three days

as

hurricane winds drove white sea horses

to shore and

branches of palm trees whirled

like broken helicopter blades...

on day four we got sun burnt

and drunk

and I was so hungry

I punched-out the Plexi-glass

of a candy machine

and tried to eat a candy bar

older than Methuselah

and in the morning I woke

wet

from piss

in my bed

and

covered the spot

and we drove back

out of money

out of smokes

and Ron got ugly

without his fix

and Steve

a born-again liar

told one whopper after

another

all the way to Ottawa.

___

The Poet: Wayne F. Burke's book of poems, WORDS THAT BURN, is published by Bareback Press (2013).

The Artist: Luka Fisher is a Los Angeles based painter known for his frequent collaborations, mixed media projects, and work with musicians. He has designed forthcoming releases for LA based bands Feral Kizzy and Death Hymn Number 9. His work was also featured in Feral Kizzy's latest music "22 A Month" which you can view here---http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CV5QYDfkxU0 He has also collaborated with a wide range of artists, writers and photographers including---Dash Hobbeheydar, Brian Pulido, Brenda Carsey, and Tate Hemlock. His work has been shown in Los Angeles, Detroit, Phoenix and is held in private collections in the United States and Russia.

Mutants—a poem by Wayne Burke

As a kid

I was not afraid of ghosts;

my big fear was that I'd be beaten to death

by a psychopath.

My only defense against bullies and

whack-jobs was

to run; either on foot or bicycle.

But to stay out of danger meant

being super-alert

which was hard

because

I only had sugar then

to get cranked-up on.

One day, while half-asleep and

day dreaming of becoming the next

Jim Thorpe,

I was collared, on my way home from school

by Foot Ramone

who lived somewhere on the back road

and usually came out only at night.

Foot had done 3 years of 6th grade

before they kicked him out

and no one was sure if Foot was male, female, or "other."

Why Foot disliked me, I do not know--

it does not matter--he dragged me backwards

through a pond-sized ice puddle

as if trolling me for bait

then left me

soaked

and cold as a dead mackerel

on the roadside.

___

Wayne Burke's work has appeared in FORGE, miller's pond, and Northeast Corridor. He was poet-of-the-month in Bareback, 7-13.

Cloud white slather—a poem by Wayne Burke

Cloud white slather 

above brown brick block;

     a telephone talker,

     a chick

     running into bank

     for last minute withdrawal,

     businessman with attaché

wine-salesman or maybe heroin-seller,

     hillside houses scattered

     like dice among

bare trees, brush, brown-green;

     office workers going home

     to grub

or to Irish pub on noir-ish side street

     by jewelers' sparkling windows

     on corner...

Chubby high school girl

     wearing green Celtics' jersey, walks past;

I hear screams of punks on Brooklyn Street

     (where shooting was last week)

church steeple an up thrust dagger into

     cloud slather

purr of cars from Prospect Street;

     my back to pine tree

     my prospects few

     (could be worse)

pine needles at my feet

twigs, cones, chewing gum

wrapper, butt...

I should do something to get out

     of here,

     but what?

___

Wayne Burke's work has appeared in FORGE, miller's pond, and Northeast Corridor. He was poet-of-the-month in Bareback, 7-13.

Ballantine—a poem by Wayne Burke

Whenever I drank Ballantine Ale

I got mean, or

maybe I was already mean;

I don't know;

I don't think so;

but

anyway,

one day

not long ago

after emptying several

of the green bottles

I got it into my head

that this big guy

who had an ugly face

I'd seen around town

had somehow

done me wrong

and I saw the guy

on the opposite side of the street

from me

and I screamed

YOU!  GET OVER HERE!

like I was talking to a dog

and the guy stared

and I stared

and I started across the street

and he ran

fast

as I chased him

to a house

he went inside of

and I followed

up a staircase

to a doorway

the guy stood in

holding an axe

and I backed

slowly

down the stairs

and left

just as cops arrived

in their shiny car

that I got a free ride in.

___

Wayne Burke's work has appeared in FORGE, miller's pond, and Northeast Corridor. He was poet-of-the-month in Bareback, 7-13.o His book of poems, WORDS THAT BURN, is available through Bareback Press, also on Amazon. 

Sophomore—a poem by Wayne Burke

Walking down the street
alone
I pass a couple
arm-in-arm and
remember walking with my girl

holding her hand

to the drug store downtown
for a cherry coke,
careful not to slurp from the straw,
hearing cat-calls from
my so-called buddies
on the street and
listening to her chatter
on our way
to the cemetery
where we made-out on
the soft grass, her softer jacket
the tombstones granite
she had to be home by nine
her jacket always stayed
buttoned;
I would have betrayed Christ
for a touch
but
her treasures were locked-up
like Fort Knox:
I dumped her for an older girl
a tease, who dumped me
and then I began to hang out on
the corner, drinking beer
acting tough
one of the boys who
went "over the line" on
weekend nights
to drink
in New York State bars
and drive back
drunk
along snaky roads
passing cars like A.J. Foyt
at Indy.

___

Wayne Burke's work has appeared in FORGE, miller's pond, and Northeast Corridor. He was poet-of-the-month in Bareback, 7-13. His book of poems, WORDS THAT BURN, is available through Bareback Press.

Courtyard— a poem by Wayne F. Burke

I was alone in the court yard
until a guy wearing red socks
and an army cap turned backwards
sat and rolled a cigarette and
started to read a paperback;
then some pigeons flitted down
from trees
and another guy walked through
reading text messages
and a girl on a bicycle
who looked like an Italian movie star
glided past
as a silver bird soared overhead
through a blue sky
and another girl, with jugs that moved
like a water bed,
pulled a dog past on a leash,
and then everything returned to normal:
trees stood
sun shined
earth turned
and I was alone.

___
The Poet: Wayne Burke's work has appeared in FORGE, miller's pond, and Northeast Corridor. He was poet-of-the-month in Bareback, 7-13.

The Artist: Eleanor Leonne Bennett is an internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage.

The Long Walk— a poem by Wayne F. Burke

Another MANPOWER job

where they send you out to work

and take half your pay,

only it wasn't a bad job, this one:

mixing paints, putting the cans

into the arms of a machine and

watching the machine jitter like

a belly dancer...

At four I left and started to hitch hike

but could not get a ride

and all the drivers looked smug,

like bastards, laughing at me,

and I thought "fuck you assholes, I will walk!"

and I started to walk with my back to traffic

going past at sixty,

the bastards!

I was pissed: even if a car stopped I would not get in.

I marched like one of Caesar's soldiers going to meet the Gauls,

sweating out my ass;

it was hot, hazy, no breeze;

people on the sidewalk moved out of my way--

I must not have looked normal.

I was not normal.

I was pissed.

I walked twelve miles back to the place.

A girl who lived in the apartment asked me

how I got back and I said: "I walked."

She was screwing a black guy from Detroit

who smoked pot and did not talk.

Me, I wasn't screwing anyone

except myself.

___

The Poet: Wayne Burke's work has appeared in FORGE, miller's pond, and Northeast Corridor. He was poet-of-the-month in Bareback, 7-13.

The Artist:  Eleanor Leonne Bennett is an internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph , The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited , having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles,Florida, Washington, Scotland,Wales, Ireland,Canada,Spain,Germany, Japan, Australia and The Environmental Photographer of the year Exhibition (2011) amongst many other locations. She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010.

Red— a poem by Wayne Burke

The drunker I got

the more I fought

to stay sober, and

the straighter I

stood, until, ready

to pass out, I strode

from the bar to the

nearest car in the lot

and into the backseat

took a header...

One night I woke as the

car I'd slept in moved at

a high rate of speed down

a hill and a guy I knew, 'Red,'

driving, ramming the nose

of his car into the rear of a

car ahead. "What the fuck

are you doing?" I said to Red

who, surprised to see me, said

his girlfriend was with a guy in

the other car and that he, Red

was

going to kill both.

I had to talk fast that night:

had to save 3 lives, 4, including

my own; had to get Red to agree

to wait and kill the bastards later.

___

Wayne Burke's work has appeared in FORGE, miller's pond, and Northeast Corridor. He was poet-of-the-month in Bareback, 7-13.