Nice Smell Zone on the Gowanus Expressway

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Exit 8A

Courtyard Marriott, South Brunswick, NJ

The cars go by
just like they did

-Tom Clark
Friday, July 13, 2014, 7 A.M.
Does this poem speak to New York subway riders? Is there anyone, anywhere--at least in these United States--who does not immediately go to their own place where the cars go by..., however real, imaginary, or liminal that place may be? Here for the poet's blog post for the poem.

1 comment:

  1. Far superior than the poet's own rather callow posting. What did he know, then, of coming to consciousness on one's back, eyes full of blood, one ear gone, one side of head hanging off, neck broken, unable to move any part of the organism save the eyeballs, which, after a moment, registered the legend on the side of the large boxy white truck which had mysteriously parked alongside the grotesque remains:

    "Fatal Accident Team"

    I immediately go to my own place, here on the lethal freeway feeder.

    This poem scares me. It didn't used to. Prophecy can be a terrible burden. Remind me never to pick it up again.