Tom Clark

ephemeral as tinkerbell unmoored yet not unmoved tossed cloudward, flipped sans volition into the flow going but not wanting to go without the other flotsam

Every day I peruse the box scores for hours Sometimes I wonder why I do it Since I am not going to take a test on it And no one is going to give me money The pleasure’s something like that of codes Of deciphering an ancient alphabet say So as brightly to picturize Eurydice In the Elysian Fields on her perfect day The day she went 5 for 5 against Vic Raschi

sleepwalker can never die he is the chemical soldier composite of latex and atropine, hellfire, warthogs, desolation, pride, apaches, lasers, dust devils swirling, screaming fire deaths, machine worship, young blond pilots flashing thumbs up, excited smiles of interviewed military wives, shrapnel- paced rockeye anti-personnel bombs spraying death like fireflies over a texas barbecue of human flesh stretching sixty miles across open desert, armageddon over eden, algebraic mosaic of witchcraft, dot pattern magic of omens and signs, victims never knowing what hit them, vivid delivery of hell to nineveh, incendiary reduction of tissue to shadows on the sand, incineration of boots with human feet still in them, pain, mania, technology, history, delirious victims bleeding, eagle with the brains of a weak and frightened victim in its beak, unhappy fate, grief, shame, helpless rage