“Identification Tags”
by
Tom Clark
Ghosts do wear sheets but not for sleeping.
Sometimes people die while still alive
and then come back to life
but only partially. You can read the signs
around the eyes, which get
a dusty look like burned out hundred watt bulbs.
When they pass one another on the streets
there is a soft noise, as of muslin touching.
“Born Yesterday”
by
Tom Clark
The concept of evil, as long ago Symbolized by the devil, has evolved Over centuries into the concept Of men, as delineated by (let's Call her) Naima, Halloween night At Fertile Grounds, where she stood Demurely chatting with Ayman, the handsome Proprietor (think Omar Sharif With soul and twinkle) at closing time, As I poked my ancient nose in and said "Trick or treat." Ayman offered a knuckle Bump solidarity hello—alone there By the counter with lovely young Naima, Who, when I said, What's new, smiled Ever so sweetly and said, "Men are evil!" Feeling it ungracious to disagree I didn't, for a moment. But then— Well, solidarity is solidarity. "What about Ayman?" I said. "Ayman Doesn't look evil to me." Naima Fixed upon Ayman a glance of great Critical probity, smiled and said, "Hmm," A moment passed, pregnant, perhaps With reconsideration. Exceptions Prove rules are basically dumb, And really, that's the trouble, after all, With generalization. And what of love? "Isn't love," I ventured, "a matter of Recognizing someone has flaws And trying to help them limit the damage?" More thought. "Yes, that's exactly what it is," Naima said. And to myself I said, One point for a draw, quit while you're not losing. I fell out the door, squeezing between raindrops. Two ten-year-old girls walked past, one with horns, The other peeping from a full body cast. You forgot your treat, Ayman called out, Holding up a bag of old pastries From the "Born Yesterday" basket.
“Hazard Response”
by
Tom Clark
As in that grey exurban wasteland in Gatsby
When the white sky darkens over the city
Of ashes, far from the once happy valley,
This daze spreads across the blank faces
Of the inhabitants, suddenly deprived
Of the kingdom’s original promised gift.
Did I say kingdom when I meant place
Of worship? Original when I meant
Damaged in handling? Promised when
I meant stolen? Gift when I meant
Trick? Inhabitants when I meant slaves?
Slaves when I meant clowns
Who have wandered into test sites? Test
Sites when I meant contagious hospitals?
Contagious hospitals when I meant clouds
Of laughing gas? Laughing gas
When I meant tears? No, it’s true,
No one should be writing poetry
In times like these, Dear Reader,
I don’t have to tell you of all people why.
It’s as apparent as an attempted
Punch in the eye that actually
Catches only empty air—which is
The inside of your head, where
The green ritual sanction
Of the poem has been cancelled.
“Realism”
by
Tom Clark
The smashed weirdness of the raving cadenzas of God
Takes over all of a sudden
In our time. It speaks through the voices of talk show moderators.
It tells us in a ringing anthem, like heavenly hosts uplifted,
That the rhapsody of the pastoral is out to lunch.
We can take it from there.
We can take it to Easy Street.
But when things get tough on Easy Street
What then? Is it time for realism?
And who are these guys on the bus
Who glide in golden hats past us
On their way to Kansas City?
Biblioklept 