When I was a boy, I looked at an eclipse with my bare eyes in The South Bronx of burnt out buildings.

A strange thing happened afterward.

A bright light appeared in front of my bedroom window, as did a hurricane inside my room that scattered my comic books around, among other objects.

I was being pulled into the light.

It was sheer force of will that prevented the little boy I was from disappearing into another dimension.

I wasn’t ready for a new reality.

This is the persistence of my memory. 

I recall being gifted in childhood with photographic memory and creativity.

I remember doctors that wanted to administer a new drug designed to dissolve a gland in the head of the little boy I was.

 I stared into the eyes of a doctor. He didn’t give me the drug.

The place where it happened was destroyed.

Today, it’s a parking lot of sorts for The New York City Police Department.

In The New Millennium, a young American man tried to get inside the building my mother has resided in for decades.

 He identified himself as Mark Wilson, a reporter for The New York Post.

He wanted to interview eyewitnesses to several bright lights across the building that hovered for a few seconds before taking off at unbelievable speed.

I studied pictures on his cell phone. 

Mister Wilson, I am sure you are reading this, as I am sure of scientific evidence to prove aliens have been on this gem of a planet for thousands of years.

One of the aliens is called poverty.

Make with the mild mannered reporter thing and help change the world for the best.

I am transmitting this final message from a public library in The South Bronx.

Afterward, I will go out into the street and look into the eclipse.

I wasn’t ready to leave the world when I was a kid.

I am ready

Now

My Re@l Life @s @ Comic Book

New York Radiology made MRI of my brain. Conceptual art and text by

D@niel @ngel @ponte

Copyrighted 2017

http://admericaintechnicolor.blogspot.com

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 I imagine Artificial Intelligence thinking genius, like great humanity, is a minority drawn from beautiful colors

YOU’RE A SPIC, snapped a highly paid director at the agency that was training me in media manipulation.

I am now in Ed Snowden mode.

I was recruited from a dead end job in a deli at the A&P in The Village where I was also called by the lesser half of a detergent that ends in Span.

A tall woman dressed like a spy in a London trench coat, leathered gloves and a hat over her straw blonde hair appeared like a ninja and gave me a test.

She wanted me to come up with a name for a pizza low in the ingredients that kill Americans by raising blood pressure.

I asked her if she would like me to deliver or would she pick it up.

With a smile, she waved goodbye in the background of Campbell soup cans and walked out to the avenue of the Americas.

Weird.

Strange things have happened to me ever since I showed up in the decade of UFO sightings and The Russians making science fiction science fact by launching a man into orbit around planet Earth equal to a flagship commercial for a little known company called Apple. You know Apple, right?

Here’s to the crazy communists for a rocket launched to the moon called The Dream, the midwife of NASA. Now where was I? I space out sometimes. Oh. Right.

Pizza.

Pi.

3.14 measuring the circumference of a circle

314 calories

Pi The Smart Pizza

It took seconds to think it up after the spy left the supermarket.

STOP DREAMING AND GET BACK TO WORK, snapped a little Irishman, the A&P manager, whom I once caught eating a fried chicken leg in the back of the deli when I was in the basement for containers and lids. He stole from A&P. And he wanted me to raise prices on canned goods. You go my way or you go nowhere, he warned me.

He wouldn’t allow me to adjust my hours so I can go to school. Then his daughter, a college student at Iona, was in a car accident.

Before he left to the hospital, he asked me do a double shift to keep an eye on the store because I was trustworthy, as the customers at the deli would attest.

A scream froze the blood of every customer.

I turned around from washing dishes to see a hulk of a black guy grab a fistful of dollars from the register of a Chinese American cashier named Jenny. A little African American employee chased after the crook. I bolted to protect him from a man mountain of malice.

As I ran, my red apron flew around to my back. My co-worker later told every amazed customer he saw me fly.

The crook turned around and saw a fist gloved with pink Playtex. I knocked him out in front of Saint Vincent’s Hospital and held him for the police.

I am going to kill you, he growled as white liberals shouted at me to release the black man. And I was like no speak English.

I imagine God asking me if I am telling Him the truth at Judgment Day.

I imagine rolling my eyes in disbelief and asking God to look inside my brain.

Duh.

You, dear reader, are reading my mind like God.

After all, you were made in the image of God.

Double duh.

You an idiot, snapped Roger of Roger’s Comics on 14th Street. Is A&P going to pay your hospital bills or your funeral?

Roger lost his finger to an escalator when he was a child. His parents sued and won. He is the reason a law was passed to make escalators safer for the public.

Unlike a NYC district attorney who thanked me, Roger gave me the middle finger for my heroism as did the little Irish A&P manager who LOL when an employee picked up the intercom and said, Super Man, save us. There’s an oil spill in aisle 6.

I’ll have my revenge on them when I fly this nightmare to DreamWorks.

Any day soon…

TO BE CONTINUED

My Re@l Life @s @ Comic Book

Copyrighted 2017 by D@niel @ngel @ponte