Back
in the day
a
week was forever,
a
month would
never
end ,
and a
year was
a
trip to the moon,
something
we wouldn't
be
alive to see
unless
everything we woke up
to
was only another version
of
sleep and celestial sets
on a
stage that shifted
with
each whim of the heart.
Time
for a kid
was
an mangy story
that
was told between
wars,
a hard rock under the
pillow,
making life
a
long sit in hard seat.
However,
Tuesday
and Thursdays
were
the days the
drug
store put up
they
new comic books
on
the spinning rack,
World's
Finest with
Batman
and Superman
in
trivial pursuit of
a
practical joker in
a top
hat who just turned
their
home towns into
stinking
piles of
ugly
cheese,
Aquaman is stranded in the
center
of a waterless swimming
pool
in a desert town rehab
where
he went to dry out
for
all that water on the knee
that
made his surfing
a
glide over a foam of
screams
for burgers that
sizzle
on a grill
where
the beach meets the tide
and
becomes a shore thing,
The
Fantastic Four
tearing
down another section
of Manhattan in their effort
to
rid the city of Buildings
that
might have housed the
homeless
who like wise
might
have created industry with
lap
tops
and
elephantine expectation
that
shelter remaining wits
which
help them smile at
invisible
gods that feed the soul
large
piles of rust-hued
rags.
There
is nothing better
than
Superheroes
and
their tantrums,
nothing
else in
this
time of exploding atolls
and
Cuban missiles
makes
turns a day
into
an hour and
a
week into a the hours
from
when head hits and rises
from
the pillow,
makes
a month
a
manageable
length
of time during
which
you can plan
to
conquer the world
with
the dimes and quarters
you've
discovered in cushion cracks
after
each of your parents cocktail parties,
aunts
uncles and insane friends
who
have no coins for
the
parking meters that
have
caught up their errant sense of where they are,
all
this glory in addition to the fact that a year
is
only a minor concern, a wonderful conceit,
another
twelve months of
making
the universe bend to your will and whim
is
the best thing you can think of
over
a new Flash or Captain America,
your
breakfast cereal crackling under the
milk
and spoon,
Nothing
beats a bag full of Marvels and DCs,
except
maybe
your
mom's cooking
and
your Dad's collection of pipes
and
his fully stocked liquor cabinet,
the
key to which I stole
and
could use
when
the comics were read,
the
TV was off
and
everyone else in the house
vanished
into rooms
and
snores
that
rock the blocks that built
the
houses in the shadow of a downtown
odd
monsters smash with
a
snort and big feet
until
I appear in drunk dreams
with
a towel wrapped
around my neck
around my neck
and
beat them to a pulp
all
while the room spins
and
lunch and dinner are lost
on
every stick of furniture,
the
taste of victory is not what it used to be.
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