I’m kind of a massive nerd. I wrote this last year for a poetry class, it’s my take on an Ars Poetica.
Words, the right sound, the right shape, the right rhythm, words that last forever. That’s what you do, Will. You choose perfect words.
-The Doctor to The Poet
1: For Professor Scott Hatch
Write as though your words are bricks going through windows.
I remember what you said, so I’ve tried.
Not so much when speaking, but with writing.
I picture them coming from the deepest pits in my stomach;
wrapped in cold winds to sting,
pulling at the muscles that line my throat,
not to drip from my lips like a leaky faucet.
I know they’re meant to pierce eardrums,
at least, if not hearts, just so they will be heard.
So meaning won’t be lost in sound anymore,
so when they land, wherever they do,
they’ll leave cracks in the pavement.
Hard purple-red grit
Crumbles off when it is touched,
Set down, and looked at,
But will never get smaller.
Heavy and good for throwing.
In a shoebox store, roughly the same
shape and size as a literal one,
standing in front of comic book
stacked chest of drawers,
I flick my finger pads across
the top corners of the single issues.
Sometimes the trade paperbacks,
if I can afford them.
I had to travel to the very back to find them.
Past the boxes of the role-playing
game boxes and tables.
The Dragon’s Keep regulars
only sometimes see a girl searching the shelves.
They observe my movements closely.
Too closely. Wheeeeze when I interrupt
their game play by passing through.
I find my three, my favorite three
heroes from the better
known comic book ‘verses.
I pay for them, walk to my car,
sit and lock myself inside, then
peel back the stitch of scotch tape
and gulp the India ink pictures.
Batman from Detective Comics.
His lips part for only
bared teeth. Sharp pearls
hold more speech back
There are the classics;
biff, kapow, whiff.
They’re chosen with more care
these days. When he’s thrown
Wade. Wade Wilson.
The Merc with the Mouth.
Ahem. From Marvel.
The panels open with him
busting the fourth wall like
The window he’ll krunch through later.
He has two inner monologue
caption boxes; a white one spilling
into a yellow one, what’s left
pours over his tongue.
Not a syllable wasted.
Hellboy, my first,
from Dark Horse. Awed, odd
panels of monsters, one of them
our Hero. Like the Caped Crusader,
there are mostly scenery
Two or three dialogue boxes at
most per page, fewer thought bubbles.
Something large is coming,
It booms cobble stones,
creaks past trap doors.
HB bumps it back into the night.
I’m done flipping through
my three, I’ve been bitten by
the cold enough.
Click the key, rev the engine,
turn the radio on.
I’ll trail the lines and colors later,
hold the words in my ears now.
They’re clearer, apt. Better,
not as many can be used.