Those Paper Fighters march
off the page, their
heels caught on margins
as they pull pin
blue lines up behind
them, shaking off “e”s
and brushing “o”s from
their hair at what
we see as soul.
They are the color
of books, washed out
but filled with … character.
Good? Bad? As long
as they don’t kill
the dog, I’m fine.
Cats, go ahead, I’ll
hand them the hammer.
But would they take
it? Goes back to
good or bad don’t
it? Here those characters
stand. Fast in my
mind, driving their ’67
Chevrolet Impala and mounting
the mountain of Mordor.
I say you live
in my mind and
I in yours, so,
do you consider yourself
real? Let the flesh
paper crawl from the
spine and live. Turn
to those Paper Fighters
we love so much.
The core of our
brain nuggets are searching
for their past, their
history, their morals — or
their lack thereof. Each
of them is all of them.
They are legion. Hear
them roar. Hear them
rise and take home
in our mind. So
much for imaginary. Just
as imaginary as great
great great grandma, dead
since before World War
Two and the rise
of the Twilight empire.
The dead thrive in
the spot behind our
eyes, the place that
holds the meaning of
“hot dogs” and that
roller coaster ride from
our first decade. As
long as we consider
our buried comrades part
of reality, part of
that space, the reality
of character is ever
living. What makes them
different? What makes character
different from character? Is
it that they’re buried
in words and not
worm-shit and puke
from the dinosaur era?
Both disintegrate with age.
Both have gooey expiration
dates that make them
incomprehensible and dumb. Those
Dinos are laughing in
their worm-shit graves
at our souls, sitting
back with peppermint patties
and popped corn (hold
the butter) as we
grapple over the meaning
of character, of soul.
Katelyn Baker studies English and creative writing at the College of New Jersey. She is a dog trainer at Petsmart and a part of Attitudes in Reverse, an organization founded by her family that uses dogs to help educate youth about good mental health.
