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week of december 6 - 12 1999

Adam Clay and Evan Anderson

BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
by e-mailing a few of your shorter pieces or one long piece to me
ALONG WITH a bio of any reasonable length. (Include what city you live in)
It's fun, it's easy, it's free. Impress your friends. Impress your mother.

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POTW@PoetrySuperHighway.com



Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
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I'm a Jew, Are You
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Adam Clay
aclay@netdoor.com

Bio (auto)

I'm from Hattiesburg, Mississippi, currently studying at the University of Southern Mississippi, and hope to one day put my kids through school.


The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Adam Clay and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


Cat

Yesterday I drove
my car into a cat. Speed
limit thirty five.

It just crept from the
side like unexpected sex
and in confusion

gas and brake pedal
were one. I could see its paws
waving at me. Just

wanting one more mouse
to chew on, one more dog to
run from. But turning

on twenty-third it
hit me like I hit that cat:
those bastards have nine

lives, and suddenly
my conscience was satisfied.
Yellow, red, then stop.


My Aim Is True

On the tenth of October I was almost abducted
by a UFO. It was circling slowly over Petal,

Mississippi, and I was driving only because it was
a nice day. The sun reflected off the flying object.

It was nice to look at. I pulled off the highway,
looked up, waiting for my orders. In a

British accent, I was asked to come forward.
I never saw them face to face, but they must have

decided I wasn't an accurate human specimen. The light
was still nice to look at. Maybe they wanted a woman?


Texas

I saw all of Texas in two days,
and I'm a fast driver. "Rest Area
Blues," I call it. Pissing Lone Star among
strangers in six different places,

designed just for pissing.

Even with maps, I never know
where I am. Milemarkers speak
Texan, and we ignore them.

Do hitchhikers hitch more than they
hike? I see them lining the highways,
fewer than milemarkers, but more than
I care to count.

Every town has a DJ who says
its so hot you can fry
an egg on concrete. If I hear
one more say it, I just might.

The deeper I go, the radio becomes
Mexican. I hear it hours from the border:

"Esta tan caliente, puedes freir un huevo en el concreto."


Evan Anderson
scottevan@netstep.net

Bio (auto)

Evan Anderson lives in Woodstock, New York, where he has read poetry and novel excerpts with his writing group, the Glaring Omissions. He has recently written for Communities magazine and has had poems published in Chronogram. He studied Wild Mind writing with Natalie Goldberg, screenplays with Wells Root, and was a member of Actors Repertory Theater in Hollywood.


The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Evan Anderson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


Millennial Squeeze


black limousine, engine racing
leaves a plastic bag
and a cloud of ten-dollar bills

across the parking lot
seagull pecks at chicken burger
burrito ends, sticky cola
and best of all, french fries
small thin salty sea creature
plucked by a yellow beak
from the deep fried tide.

traffic flows into dark foothills
sedan drives under electric door
homeowner gets out
grey suit still pressed
today's late edition rolled beneath his arm
walks up carpeted stairs
to a cloud of steam and thawing vegetables.

no stopping tonight
no motels, no A & P
it's one marathon drive
radio headlines, weather, traffic bulletins
interstate to netherworld
big city to wheat field
in the space of one day
we can go anywhere
all we need is more time.

bumper-to-bumper
to the last exit on the millennial highway
in a ditch beside the road
are the arms and torso of a styrofoam dummy
helpless, a policeman watches
as headlights flicker by.

a milk white nebula
swirls in the coffee cup
a river courses through the gutter
spirals down the manhole
pulling light, resources
shopping bags, gum wrappers, stalks of roses
the attention span
down to the center of gravity.

some rush to work, some run from it
some drive fast, hearts pounding
to feel how sharp, how solid the edge really is
before the lights go out
the curtain comes down
with the birthday candles
the hand on the shoulder
the absolute melting of worlds
and what didn't squeeze through
can be found in the memories
of crows.