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j. griffin clark
J. Griffin Clark, a poet from urbana, ohio, has lots of time on his hands and discombobulated memories of ohio university.

Works on this page:
old southern lady on a cool summer night
chair dreams
smoke haze
small-town night
babbling brook boredom and cheese


old southern lady on a cool summer night

Tha boy didn kno wha ta do. tha they was, tose beut-e-ful prutty thangs on dat nasy dirty couch, with ony shirts on ova theys skivies. He did da ony ting da pow boy knew ta do, which was ta wal righ up ta dem an say wit e'is itlle bitty voice, "ow much fa ya?" alls I rec collec is dat powr boy runnin an runnin wit e'is grungy ole hat in e'is grubby'itlle hands. Phew, boy, run! I hollad bu e jus kep on goin an goin....runnin an runnin.


chair dreams

up late, channel surfing,
one night I see
a bat flip flapping against
my window and let it in.
it graces around the ceiling
and flutters about my head,
I sit, reclined and resolved,
in my chair and sleep.
Little creatures,
legged and winged,
make their way up my weary legs
and down my limp arms.
Commercialized psychics
blah blah blah in the distance
as I slip into peaceful dreams.
I sit there, head lagging to the side
and mouth dangling open,
not wondering not thinking not feeling
just sleeping.
Reality slips further and further
into the subconscious mind of Me
and the Id takes over and makes Me God.
Stirring uncomfortably in a chair,
my body plays this position and that
strives for and not finding comfort.
Flip flap flip flap



life goes on
on on on
with blinks
and stares


smoke haze

everything, every color,
talkin, everyone, everything
tune in, man, and lay back.
Induce the passion that can be found
NO! don't hold back.....embrace the
glitz in your reality, in your mind.
Hang on close to the seat,
involve your senses and breathe.
Get up and walk, sit, walk, laugh
high--stoned and smile.


small-town night

looking through the window,
I see
a deer looking back
I see a deer looking back.

in the open meadow
a few dull green trees are scattered
here and there
the deer turns and stands--
eating from the tree
as if a prehistoric creature
I stare.

the scene is grand--

the sky at dusk
few white clouds despersed over the
healthy blue sky in a small-town night
the sun
the sun
spreads it's fingers out
ina glorious reaching stretch.
the wind blows
the tree leaves dance
the deer eats.
the white patch surrounded by brown,
the thin legs raised and
rested against the trunk,
the antlers' poised brilliance
I see this all in amazment
as the sun moves behind the clouds
on this small-town night.



cool man....coooo all

yeah, we cool
unison snaps all around
visions of dark hats and
pointed goatees,
eyes covered
black plastic glasses--


the sweaty man, up there, with the horn
blowin, he's the man up there.
listen to the percussionist
yeah, that's the beat beat beat
bang bang thump bang bang thump thump bang.
bent over the piano the man pounds away
c g e c d it's there,

it's cool.

left on stage, the bass, it's cool.
deep heavy thumps--
each chord, each note.

Smokey air, cloudy, hazey,
dim the lights, spot light
spotlight on the band, man, yeah

this the scene
sitting here, a nameless face,
in a nameless crowd--all for the same reason.


bang bang thump thump bang thump thump bang
trumpet blares through the noise
piano man pounds pounds pounds
bass thumps in deep and heavy


babbling brook boredom and cheese

blah blah blah
take it and run
blah blah blah
babbbling on and on
current rushing paaaasssed
weathering rocks
and passing time
to the current of the water
feel the air rush by and the noise
flow over
WHOOSH...whoosh...they go
over and over
yes? can you see, can you hear
the babbling brook speak its
quiet prose of love and age?
can you see the circles of
age under the bored old water,
so clear the gravel is in sight?
Listen to it, and walk in
drink from it and listen.

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