In a Batman Notebook...

There's a poem called "Self Portrait in Ink" by Bruce Beasley, originally printed in the Virginia Quarterly Review. In it, Beasley becomes a translucent octopus, releasing an exact copy of himself, in ink, which he leaves behind to escape from a shark. Layered meaning ensues, etcetera, etcetera. Actually, it's a gorgeous, dense poem with exciting wordplay and tantalizing line breaks. It's a fun read. I may add it to this entry later.

Anyway, our Advanced Creative Writing professor had us read it in class today and then decide what we would want to use as a medium for our own self-portraits. Some of the answers were as follows: wind-blown leaves, guitar strings, a stone bust (like Lionel Richie's!), and a jar of honey. It's a small class, nonetheless chock full of weird people, as you can tell. Anyway, I chose comic book cells.

The next part of our assignment was to create a self-portrait using the medium that we chose, in the form of a poem. We had about seven minutes to create. The results were actually incredibly impressive. What I struggled with before I started to write was not wanting to create a self-portrait. I really wanted to explore the control that an artist has over its subject, and the dynamics of that relationship. Then I inadvertently got into the audience's response to art as I wrote.

No matter how introspective of a person I am, and no matter how much I truly try to know myself, I want more than anything to be able to see myself from the outside, to get the best objective view. So I fell in love with the man who draws me in this poem. It may or may not be Daniel Clowes.


Hunched,
he draws my breath
and blood.
I am drawn to
exceedingly self-aware
thoughts in clouds,
colored blue
by Small Press, Inc.
ink,
only when we can afford to.

Each cell as a linear,
filmic storyboard:
bird's eye black,
XCU, flecks of green
in mine,
establishing.

Tales of little consequence
made epic
by thick black guiding lines,
boxes of time and space
with white space in between,
never filled.

Comics are supposed to be!
comics are not!
comics never!
Shouldn't this be
funny? You're funnier
in life than on paper.

The paper is under my
skin, I say silently,
and pull a long
pointed speech
bubble
from my tongue,
and there's a paper cut
on my windpipe

which he kisses in
his brain, hot
under clip-on easel
light.