He had a Sacred Heart of Jesus
tattooed on his right arm slipping out
sometimes from underneath torn white shirt
that read “dead inside”
remembering images from some forgotten movie
crimson hand prints on whitewashed walls
and he sat just waiting for the world to fold into itself
viewing the sinister pop art display in the bathroom mirror
shedding helpless ink through the darkness
onto some unhip Kerouacian insomniac’s
coffee stained napkin
blinded by café light
writing on the window from hot coffee steam
wash the wounds follow the scar
a sudden quick conscious displacement
like a Nancy Drew flashback
shifting concrete
and he’s caught in a caffeinated nerve crash
like a surreal painting sliding through the streets
he trips with a little twist down some drunken alleyway
in a late night gutter frenzy
viewing death like a drug addict erotic intensity
visionary and flying nightmare high
and he can’t remember where he was
on the day anybody died
he just remembers hearing about it
after the bodies are long gone
comic book mentality
memory like mercury
feeling his life change
shot up with Technicolor lust
wanting Selena Kyle
always finding Lois Lane
Marcel Feldmar 