Across the halftone screen of a mid-century Tuesday, you drafted the blueprint for the flawed divine. Not the marble stillness of Olympus, but the radiator-hiss of Forest Hills, where the radioactive sting isn’t a curse, but a mortgage on morality.
You traded the thee and thou for the thwip and zap, finding the rhythmic iambics in a Queens accent. The lineation here is a skyscraper’s edge: vertical, precarious, swinging on a filament of "What If?"
We see you in the ink-wash of the cameo— a mailman, a bus driver, a cosmic observer— the creator hiding in the crowd of his own making. You understood the Metrical Tension between the secret identity and the spandex skin; that a hero is simply a human who refuses to let the panel border contain their reach.
The ink never dries on your "True Believers." It stays wet, staining the fingers of the dreamers, alliteration marching like a silver surfer across the vacuum of the blank page. Excelsior—not as a slogan, but as a kinetic enjambment: the soul constantly leaping to the next frame
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