Since I am somewhat of a comic book fan, I decided to imitate the poem "Ben Grimm in Retirement," by Jonette Larrew.
My body, composed of crumbling earth. Dandelions sprout
from my chest and belly. Members of the cabbage
family embed my soles, curly dock roots in my scalp.
A gardener comes along to weed
every morning, tugs Bermuda shoots
and scrapes mosses. Like long-delayed success at extricating
a seed hull stuck in molars,
like scratching the ear canal.
Rocks and sticks, twigs,
branches, pebbles, mica and quartz.
I heave.
They tickle. They grind. Some rocks stick
fast into the ground. Rain and snow only rinse
them, like cleaning teeth.
Pill bugs and night crawlers keep me soft and arable.
Beetles, ants, always scurrying through the capillaries
they've rebulit. Lately, a mole
cricket riddles a network
of bores in my right forearm,
the ache in my wrist.
Earthworms will repair me in time. They always have.
I like this poem for its specificity that steers away from the actual superhero lore. There are no references to the Fantastic Four, no hints of "it's clobberin time," and no mention of the Thing's angry persona. All the details derive from the new character created within the poem.
Daredevil of 30214
When the city life fulfills me no more
I decide to fight mailbox bashings and home invasions,
a suburbanite with no cape.
The jurisdiction goes from the only QT on 314
to the intersection of the square, the downtown
with "One Way Only's." I chase car jackers there on purpose
knowing they will panic and make my job easier,
run head on into three lanes of pale headlights.
Crows, bluebirds, woodpeckers
and the like are my disease laden pigeons.
I have no gargoyles or skyscrapers,
just the local Wal-Mart. The "M"
gives me 24/7 closure. We stay open
even on holidays.
The Hispanics call me "Diablo,"
the general manager screeches at me to recover buggies
for room and board, but no body knows I'm blind out here
and think the carts I chase down speak decent Spanish
and call me names. I wrangle them without the aid
of the motorized collector.
My body, composed of crumbling earth. Dandelions sprout
from my chest and belly. Members of the cabbage
family embed my soles, curly dock roots in my scalp.
A gardener comes along to weed
every morning, tugs Bermuda shoots
and scrapes mosses. Like long-delayed success at extricating
a seed hull stuck in molars,
like scratching the ear canal.
Rocks and sticks, twigs,
branches, pebbles, mica and quartz.
I heave.
They tickle. They grind. Some rocks stick
fast into the ground. Rain and snow only rinse
them, like cleaning teeth.
Pill bugs and night crawlers keep me soft and arable.
Beetles, ants, always scurrying through the capillaries
they've rebulit. Lately, a mole
cricket riddles a network
of bores in my right forearm,
the ache in my wrist.
Earthworms will repair me in time. They always have.
I like this poem for its specificity that steers away from the actual superhero lore. There are no references to the Fantastic Four, no hints of "it's clobberin time," and no mention of the Thing's angry persona. All the details derive from the new character created within the poem.
Daredevil of 30214
When the city life fulfills me no more
I decide to fight mailbox bashings and home invasions,
a suburbanite with no cape.
The jurisdiction goes from the only QT on 314
to the intersection of the square, the downtown
with "One Way Only's." I chase car jackers there on purpose
knowing they will panic and make my job easier,
run head on into three lanes of pale headlights.
Crows, bluebirds, woodpeckers
and the like are my disease laden pigeons.
I have no gargoyles or skyscrapers,
just the local Wal-Mart. The "M"
gives me 24/7 closure. We stay open
even on holidays.
The Hispanics call me "Diablo,"
the general manager screeches at me to recover buggies
for room and board, but no body knows I'm blind out here
and think the carts I chase down speak decent Spanish
and call me names. I wrangle them without the aid
of the motorized collector.
Comments