In addition to all the comics I retrieved from St. Louis, I also shipped back several boxes of old papers, school projects, pictures, love letters, and other miscellaneous stuff. Yesterday, I came across this gem, written in 1988 by Marc Sobel, age 15. I honestly don't know whether to be proud or embarrased, but either way, I dedicate it to Alan, Chris and the rest of the guys at Comic Book Galaxy in honor of the site's 6th Anniversary. It's been a privilege being a part of it these last two years.
The Page Turns
The dark of night upon dull gray paper.
The silent conversations.
The inconsistent city that changes just a little each month
The man with the mask lurks below awaiting the evil.
Splish splash, Splish splash
Come the silent footsteps floating through the sewer tunnel.
Quick, turn the page!
The page turns, the pencil lifts from the paper.
I stand admiring my work.
So detailed.
So imaginary.
So unlimited.
I can only stare in awe of my own creation
For this 2-dimensional man is whatever I want him to be.
My hand grows sweaty in my mother's
But I dare not let go.
Because today is the day.
Today is Thursday.
As the "now hurry up" still lingers in my ears, I race through the door.
I stand up tall, and gaze up at the man.
"Excuse me, sir.
Is Mickey Mouse in?"
The sea of happiness and content
That flows over one after reading or getting or drawing
A comic book
Is irreplacable.
The warmth in your stomach.
To the gleam in your eyes
To the crisp newsprint smell that fills your nose
To th unpredictableness of the stories
There is no better feeling
From drug, sex or sport
Than the smooth touch of Baxter
To my skin.
I do not need drugs to get high
For comic books put me in the
State of euphoria.
The Page Turns
The dark of night upon dull gray paper.
The silent conversations.
The inconsistent city that changes just a little each month
The man with the mask lurks below awaiting the evil.
Splish splash, Splish splash
Come the silent footsteps floating through the sewer tunnel.
Quick, turn the page!
The page turns, the pencil lifts from the paper.
I stand admiring my work.
So detailed.
So imaginary.
So unlimited.
I can only stare in awe of my own creation
For this 2-dimensional man is whatever I want him to be.
My hand grows sweaty in my mother's
But I dare not let go.
Because today is the day.
Today is Thursday.
As the "now hurry up" still lingers in my ears, I race through the door.
I stand up tall, and gaze up at the man.
"Excuse me, sir.
Is Mickey Mouse in?"
The sea of happiness and content
That flows over one after reading or getting or drawing
A comic book
Is irreplacable.
The warmth in your stomach.
To the gleam in your eyes
To the crisp newsprint smell that fills your nose
To th unpredictableness of the stories
There is no better feeling
From drug, sex or sport
Than the smooth touch of Baxter
To my skin.
I do not need drugs to get high
For comic books put me in the
State of euphoria.
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