A Letter to Bruce Wayne
	
	Dear Bruce,
 
	Sometimes, I want to sucker punch
	everybody that wears Che Guevara
	T-shirts. Other times, I prefer to
	close the lid of my weakest eyeball,
	and present my chin to the heavens.    
	Yesterday, I watched a marathon of
	Hollywood Squares until I finally
	understood the inherent grace of
	Pointillism. When I was five, I used
	to pretend that I was Orion’s leg,
	so that I could kick that sleeping
	Brontosaurus always unconscious
	beside the North Star. For a long
	time I thought the Big Dipper was
	actually a narcoleptic Brontosaurus,
	which if you pause to consider it,
	really does explain a lot. Anyhow,
	do you recall Mr. Wayne, the letter
	I wrote to you on October 9th? It was
	the one that contained the blueprints
	necessary to create a perfect Light
	Bright likeness of your trademark
	Bat Mask. In that letter I also said
	how I, this one time, single-handedly
	thwarted a Crime Lord. The Crime
	Lord was named The Sewer Rat.
	The Sewer Rat was defended by a
	gang of costumed goons, dressed as
	19th Century Parisian river-watchers.
	When it was time to fight, the goons
	painstakingly arranged themselves
	about their boss with a detached,
	visual clarity. Eventually, I began
	to punch them. Each time I punched
	them, a cartoon word would flash
	across the screen. The word was
	always the same: Transcendence.  
	In other words, what I admire most
	about you, Mr. Wayne, is that you
	are a super hero without any visible
	super power, which if you pause
	to consider it, is really quite
	revolutionary of you. But with that
	being said, Bruce, I swear to the
	starry heavens that if I ever catch
	you wearing another Che Guevara
	t-shirt, you’re fucking dead to me.
 
	Sincerely,
	Ryan

 

 

	The Day The Scene Got Played Out
	
	I looked at Jocelyn & said ‘I know an arbitrary
	place with a safe & open atmosphere. It is perfect
	for dating. The whole place is a ball pit. Plus,
	leprechauns hide in the ball pit.’ I met her in
	the used record shop. We were reaching for the
	same vinyl, in order to hide it, for the good of our
	planet. ‘I love leprechaun diving,’ Jocelyn said,
	‘I always end up naked.’ ‘My name is Jared,’ I
	said. In time, the ball pit demanded our clothing.
	The leprechauns laughed & pointed at our bare
	bottoms. ‘Perhaps we ought to dive up,’ Jocelyn
	offered. ‘Like this?’ I gasped from beneath the
	modest cover of balls. ‘All the best leprechauns
	are in the rafters, Jared’, she replied. Then Jocelyn
	went all dilated in the eye & all slurry in the
	mouth. I reached for her, like a record-needle,
	‘Come back, Jocelyn,’ I cried ‘you forgot your
	belongings!’ ‘There are no Jocelyn’s here,’ she said,
	spinning out of control, & by that I mean, away
	from me. ‘There is only Zihna,’ Jocelyn added.
	Her slurred words were thrown down at me,
	but I didn’t hear any more of them. They kept
	barely missing me. Her aim was not so great,
	what with all the spinning. 

 

 

Ryan Bird regularly posts poems on his blog called, Robot Kissing Booth. He also irregularly accepts submissions for his photocopied magazine called Twaddle. Ryan's poems have appeared in many publications that blend scholastic merit with literary noteriety. They've also appeared in many publications that blend sophomoric spirit with literal obscurity. He is most proud of the latter.