LAMENTATIONS IN CONTINUITY
Bereft of boys this hour of the day,
the room silent, but for the stirring of past
presences borne of childhood impressions.
Slung into some centrifugal journey
by the petition of escape velocity,
spinning outward, overlapping stages of
phantom echoes pass through me
as they walk from walls, like penciled heroes
bursting weightless from the panels of splash pages;
walls plastered heavy with the discerning keenness
of memorabilia from across ages.
Framed Comicon commissions, their bust shots
ever poised for action—
a dialogue-box epilogue already in-the-know,
long before common household popularity was canon.
Moon Knight—donning-straightjacket
promo—personas protected behind a crescent cowl;
Green Arrow—in candid color print—full-quiver and
emerald stance drawn at the nock;
Iron Fist—artist custom sketch—teeth-gritty,
hands clenching to channel a focused chi
energizing before my eyes.
Character borne of ret-conned history, their continuity
hovering over the hand-me-down wall decals of
assorted Pokémon in defiance of gravity.
Stencils and stickers of skateboard deck logos
randomly span the perpendicular wall.
In reliance of gravity, like satellites they orbit
the slew of band and concert posters, signed and unsigned.
King’s X—in vintage logo live @Stone Pony—
silver sharpie across their younger selves,
the steady groove of Dogman tapping since the womb;
Clutch—Earth Rocker tour promo—neon-aura head-dressed
for heavy lifting from the stage a thousand shows later;
Helmet—Page-signed poster from a past Warp Tour—
eyeing melted plastic army men through magnifying glass.
Entities borne of natural obscurity, fermented
in the integrity of continuities
unabided by false rituals.
Below, on the dresser against that wall,
a Facehugger hugs a lampshade over an off-balance Ripley,
who is side-eyeing a similarly dimensioned Shin Godzilla.
Its plasticized blast tensely positioned
toward a knocked over Gundam, much to the obvious
dismay of the displayed Xenomorph stunned speechless.
Populated over years, the posing of days
becoming seconds imagined.
Weighing the situational gravity,
stepping over the scattered assortment of anime
books, tossed clothes,
the plastic accoutrements of figures
strewn about the floor—all of them clinging
by the pull of abandon
toward the center of the Earth—
I wonder if I have done all I can.
And, exiting the room, think
—my work, it appears, is done here.
BIO:
Salvatore Roseo, a Jersey Shore Poet, shares his work regularly at events and venues throughout New Jersey. Recent publication credits include The Red Wheelbarrow anthologies 13 through 15; Sensations Magazine Supplements 10 and 11 (#10—themed on Global Warming—for which he received First Place Award for Newcomers); poetry in the Matawan-Aberdeen Public Library’s Local History Archives for Pandemic Stories and Poems; and the forthcoming Anthology to End Gun Violence, American Graveyard (ReadorGreen Books 2023).
OVUNQUE SIAMO 