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[Alien Relationship]

My mind flies
faster than a NASA missile, body aches
to be held by someone who wants more
than a quick release, a fast embrace
of celebrity.
But who can count on me?
When I wear my boots and cape,
I carry no illusions of multiple
identities. I am superman. I can't take
time off to be a lover,
mentor, weekend pal.
I don't notice others’ color, gender, class.
My mission is to rescue and move on.
I have others already dialing
my number, in line of a sniper, stepping
off a curb without seeing
the oncoming truck.
I fly out the window in costume, return
an hour or two later in need of a shower,
music by Rimsky-Korsakov, put on
my executive reading glasses, try to reset
my presence. How can I
be there exclusively
for one person? I am superman. I change
clothes in phone booths, see through
people. This is a full time job. Maybe
Clark Kent is an alternative. There are a
billion Kents in the world,
eager to sip wine
by the fire, spend an evening in a resturant,
weekend at a ski lodge. Me--I’m either
late for a date or leaving abruptly.
My help line rings non-stop. Caller I.D.
indicates this newest
emergency is in
Washington D.C., at the White House.
I’ve got to fly. That’s how it is.
You want to be happy? Never fall
for a man from another planet.

profile [Lois and I, and Him]

Lois doesn't know the best part
of Superman
is Clark Kent.
She thinks Superman is the most
evolved man in the world,
good for an aerial
ride, great if you're
being bullied, cheap
if you need an x-ray,
cute in his lycra suit.

Of course, to live with him,
you have to live above
the sixth floor
in an apartment that has
windows that open out
to a balcony.
I am the one who
empties the dishwasher,
carries out the garbage,
remembers to buy
light bulbs, toilet paper,
things Lois doesn't
associate with
her Caped Hunk.

I don’t fly out the window
when she needs me
to hold her in my arms, but I wish
she dreamed of me instead of him
when she looks
at the window I just cleaned
of his fingerprints.


[Superman’s Recurrent Dream]

Am I dead yet? Did I collapse on the couch?
Am I transitioning in this late night/early
morning darkness? Will I ever get enough shut-
eye, maybe enjoy a half-hour break? All this
caffeine to stay awake. Crime doesn’t pay.
Sirens advance from the distance. Crime
doesn't sleep either. Ringing in my ears,
always louder. I hear my bedside phone ring,
loud, non-stop, insistent. My hand glides
blindly toward the receiver, fingers guide it
toward my ear. I see 2:00 a.m. on the alarm clock
dial. I'm awake again. Who would call me
at this hour? Someone from India
representing an online pharmacy? Another
emergency already? I draw the receiver
to my ear, hear a gravelly voice state,
"This is GOD. Look at the ceiling.”

Instead, I look out my window,
over the street below, in the phone booth
at the corner. It IS God.
He wears a wide-brimmed hat that flanks
the north of his face, a long dark coat with tails,
its collar conceiling his southern jaw.
His tails begin to curl, rise like a scroll, disappear--
the big blue cape fans out. I see the large red "S"
on his chest, the red boots, blue legs, the familiar,
chiseled face, close-cropped hair. He turns
from the booth, takes two rapid steps, bounds
above the street light, --someone to save
from a speeding bullet, a powerful
locomotive. Somewhere already, people
are looking up, exclaiming, it's a bird, it's a plane.
No, it's me, stepping out of my early morning
shower, primed and pumped to save
another day and night from crime, and bad,
lazy coverage of it in the arch-conservative rival
of the Daily Planet, the Sun-News.


[A Birthday Party for Lois]

Elsewhere on the planet, the Monster
Mash is playing.
Jimmy’s making funny
faces, slumping like Frankenstein
across the space in the basement
for dancing. Pete and Ron
follow suit. Billie Jo, a girl
named after her father, has a cold
and can’t quit blowing her nose. A tom-
boy named Sue, bobbing for apples, intends
to win the competition. Lana with
allergies, can’t eat cake. Class president Lex
eats his cake and Lana’s too.
Everyone applauds
when Lois opens her gifts, and they see
who spent the most, the least, which
she likes best. They expect she’ll like Clark’s
because she likes dark-
haired boys. (He arrived with a new
haircut). Then it’s back
to blowing horns and spinning tunes
and bottles. At first,
Lo was mad because her parents
wouldn’t let her have her party
at Waldo’s Wacky World of Pizza but it’s okay
because everybody came, but now
wrappers and ribbons on the floor, punch
and cake, spills and smears.
On HER birthday, she will have to clean
house. But her sister, Lucy, will help. So, overall,
it’s been fun. No big fights. No tears, break-ups.
The bottle didn’t spin the wrong way.
And now, kids are lining up at the door,
waiting for their parents to arrive,
her grandmother is saying, “What a nice party.
What a nice party. You’re a lucky girl,”
and in the kitchen, ET is calling home.


[Clark Kent and 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, afterall,
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.

Interview with Wayne Crawford
All image are copyrighted to respected owners
2010 Issue 1 Volume 2