Salvatore Roseo


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. 


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).