Wayne crawford

Superman

Clark Kent Takes Off....

Sunday night is the time he colors his hair.
He’s tried for years to undo the callick
that twists his hair into one big curl
on his forehead, but thinning, trimming,
graying and spraying haven’t loosened its grip.

Last year, the x-rays began blurring a little.
He could still see the big picture
but the little things weren’t so keenly
recognizable--pocket knives, for example,
or a stolen key in a breast pocket. He needed
to wear prescription glasses
to read fine print. And the glare of lights
during night flying had never been worse.

He was fine in the air but lift-offs and landings
--painful! Doctor attributed arthritis
to his arches. Of course, the doctor
didn’t know about Mr. Kent’s secret life,
the burden he placed on his feet, bounding
into space, lifting the weight of the world,
constantly landing on surfaces meant
for rubber tires.

You’re strong as an ox, his doctor said.
Fundamentally, there’s nothing wrong
with your body, nothing except your nerves.
Your nerves are like steel. You mustn’t give
all of your energy to The Daily Planet. Keep it
up, even your strength will dissipate.
You must listen, Mr. Kent. You must relax.

This evening’s news headlines
reported a crime spree in Metropolis.
I probably shouldn’t reveal this
but Superman woke up today, massaged
his feet, and went back to bed.

Here's one that was published first in NewVerseNews.

Clark Kent & the New Airport
Security System

Meek Clark Kent can't slip
through airport security. The Man
of Steel leaps
faster than a speeding missile, --not
fast enough to trick
a refurbished metal detector.
Beeping alarms and flashing lights
swell a mob
of Homeland rent-a-guards,
recently hired, to bug-eyed, red-alert,
empty holster panic,-- a clear
and present danger to all.

Latexed hands rake through luggage,
single out extra eye
glasses with fake lenses,
a form-fitting body
suit, obviously custom-tailored
for a criminal act,
a large red letter "S" embossed
on the chest, maybe an Arabic symbol,
coded threat to the American way.

Kent is stripped, searched
for detonators and tiny foreign
language scripts. An anal exam reveals
a tight ass. He pleads
incoherently to make a phone call
in a phone booth. Considering
that he might be gay--he is
well-built, well-endowed, good-looking,
and color-coordinates his belt
with his shoes, one guard, displaying
a red jock strap, warns that terrorists
have reached a new low, sending
queer men to do a straight job.

By the time Kent is cleared
for boarding--feted
as a metrosexual from Metropolis,
his flight cancelled, his cape
missing, his glasses broken,
and some woman who looks--
in the surveillance camera video--
like Mimi from the Drew Carey Show
walks off in his boots.

He decides, then and there,
next time he schedules an emergency
flight, instead of leaving or arriving
in El Paso, Texas, he'll lift off
and land near Roswell, New Mexico
where he can travel without hassle
as just another of their promotable
unidentified flying objects.

The Corner of Clark and Kent

Most of us boys were born
under the hood of a car, forearms
like Popeye's, pliers for fingers, grease
behind our ears.
By the time we were thirteen
we knew everything
about standard transmissions and stripping
gears on country roads.

We were raised at the corner of Clark
and Kent where gods descend into men,
men into steel machines, bodies
built like Buicks,
faces hard as chrome.
We learned to speak with our mouths' full,
talk while taking a leak, belch
and burp through dinner meals,
scratch whereever we itched.

My daddy said I had what it took.
I just didn't have the desire
to spend my life with my dick
on a fender,
my head beneath a hood. I pulled out,
like I told Lana I would, pulled out
before I was married and mortgaged, fighting
anger, fear, and whoever came near.

One day I was thinking about Jesus, remembering
"wipe the dust from your cuff." I hit
Interstate 80 at 75,
picked up
Jimmy, drove east 'til we ran out of talk.
He said he missed Lucy more than he'd thought.
I didn't miss Lana enough
to go back
to a Sinclair future or a body shop job
in a town with gravel driveways, one
traffic light, lots of old family vans,
balance
and align myself with steel-belted men
who stick oil-stained fingers in their ears, walk
like John Wayne--the cowboy,-- sit like they're
straddling a gear.

And all I kept thinking was,
I'm going to end in a neighborhood bar
where you know a man by his truck and his tab,
spitting image
of his daddy, same bruises, same fears, same scars.
I pulled out, like I told Jimmy I would,
pulled onto the highway and never went
back to the Corner of Clark and Kent.