Dickhead - Wayne F. Burke (BareBack Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Dickhead.  Wayne F. Burke.  BareBack Press.  Hamilton, Ontario.  2015.

Happy New Year Puppets!

Today's book of poetry thought about you guys every day.  We were in Toronto checking out the Aga Khan Museum, the Turner show at the Art Gallery of Ontario and a production of Kinky Boots on King Street.  It was by accident that we had lunch at Korean place called Ka Chi, it is on Dundas, one block west of the art gallery, a basement place.  Incredible.  Excellent food, excellent service and very reasonable.  It was the bomb.  Toronto really is a great city.  Hooked up with old friends, argued too much because I am an ass, drank our share of wine, came home sated on the last train out of town.  

Today's book of poetry wanted to start the new year off right so we kept Dickhead in mind.  It is a monster among us, a dangerous beast in our midst.

Dickhead by Wayne F. Burke is a great book to lead out of the gate.  Start as you mean to go on I always say.  If you read TBOP at all you know our fondness for St. Charles of Bukowski.  Burke, in no small way, reads like the best of Hank.  Dead serious, no nonsense and it feels absolutely true.

Showdown

As I lifted weights in the cellar

I listened to the floor boards overhead

creak

from the weight of my Uncle's feet;

I thought of my fist

landing SPLAT in the middle

of his fat face.

His days as boss man

were past

and he knew it too;

and one morning, in the kitchen

as I combed my hair,

which I had let grow long

he asked when

I was going to get a haircut

and I said "never"

and he flinched

like he'd been slapped

and stared

black-eyed

with the glare that used to

pin me to floor like a rabbit

but this time I glared back

and we stood

with the sun burning the roof above

and the years piled up between

us;

and then he turned his head

and with a sick smile

fled

out the door

as gutlessly

as every other bully

whoever ran.

...

No pawing the ground for grubs here, no pretense, Burke is going for the big game.  These poems power off of the page with beautiful raw energy.  But that alone is never enough - what lifts Dickhead to a more elevated plateau is that every poem Burke writes resounds like the retort of a pistol, stings like a slap to the face.

No way around it, these poems are not gentle.  They won't warm you up by the fire.  TBOP felt right at home with Dickhead.  Burke speaks our language.

Doughnuts

I got off work at 3 in the morning

after working another twelve hour shift

and I drove my car

to the P & C Market

where I turned a few doughnuts

on the ice

before I parked and

got out

and walked to the door

where some guy,

who stood looking at me

said "I don't care how old you are,

don't pull doughnuts in the lot"

and I said

"FUCK YOU"

and he blinked behind

his cock-eyed glasses

and I followed him inside

and asked if he'd heard

what I said,

but he did not reply

and I went about my shopping

too tired to

give a shit

or 

take any

either.

...

A man after my own heart.  I'm hearing poetry from the beautiful heart of the dead Bill Hicks.

And speaking of hearts, Milo and Kathryn were pretty funny this morning.  When they arrived, together, I noticed that Kathryn was wearing one of Milo's toque.  At this morning's read they made every poem in Dickhead sound like a love song.  They couldn't help themselves.

These may be love songs, but not the way my obviously lovesick interns would have you believe.  These are love songs the way a matador hums to the tiring bull.  There is nothing but hard cold steel at the end of these suckers.

8

good as winning the lottery

without having bought

a ticket;

good as watching

Ali vs: Frazier

or Army vs: Navy;

good as reading the

poetry of

Peter Jelen;

good as a Cadillac's

engine;

good as having my cock

squeezed by

Miss America.

...

Wayne F. Burke swaggers through Dickhead with such confidence you could almost resent his easy elan.  We loved it.  This is lead, follow or get the fuck out of the way stuff. 

These poems will wake you up, clear your head, knock shit around in your attic.

Wayne F. Burke

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Wayne F. Burke was born in Adams, Massachusetts and raised by his paternal grandparents. As a boy he was an All-Star baseball player, and in High School an All Class-A football player. He attended the University of Massachusetts—where he was a member of the freshman football team—and three other institutions of higher learning before graduating from Goddard College in 1979. His work history includes stints as bartender, moving man, cook, machine shop operator, sign painter, substitute school teacher, carpenter, truck driver, book reviewer (for the Burlington Free Press newspaper, Burlington, Vermont), and, for the past four years, LPN in a nursing home. His stories, essays, reviews, and poems have appeared in numerous publications. His first collection of poems "Words that Burn" was published by BareBackPress (2013). DICKHEAD is his follow up collection, which will be released June 2015.

BLURB

"A poet who takes no prisoners, pulls no punches, wastes no words and knows how to tell a good story...Burke not only has the guts to admit his part in the fractured society he makes comment on, he also has the audacity to make art out of it...A sane voice in a mad world."

     - Matthew J. Hall, Screaming With Brevity

"Burke writes with confidence, and swag...Unforgettable imagery, black humour...something in these experiences that everyone can, or will, relate to."

     - Peter Jelen, author of Impressions Of An Expatriate

"Burke is a tough young poet who, like all the rest of us, has learned some lessons from William Carlos Williams, but without imitating Williams.  Burke writes the language of where he came from and with respect for it, and more power to him."

      - Alan Dugan, Winner of The National Book Award and the Prix de Rome

barebackpress.com

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