My friend Jarkko who’s vanished in the two dimensional heaven favored by pagan Scandinavians wrote once about a lonesome birthday, a childhood recollection, comic books and pop records on a cheap gramophone….something about the joy of it.
I can’t find his poem anymore. There were attic windows I think. Mansard windows maybe. Some attics have portholes. It doesn’t matter. Jarkko was alone, light seeping like watery milk in the orphanage.
In this poem, which is its own crude comic, we laugh as Batman steps on a giant frozen turd. Robin says: “Oh, that’s going to take some scrubbing!”
—for Ralph Savarese