myopic pilgrim

She said: Hi, Chris.
I said: It’s Jack.

I should’ve said: Hi, Gwen.
She’d say: It’s Jamie.
I’d say: It’s Jack.

She is my confessor
a tourniquet for stab wounds
the world has inflicted
when I am the transgressor
I want to stop the bleeding
but I can’t; I’m addicted

It’s my mouth that keeps the arrows coming
A narrow escape isn’t unheard of in my misadventures
but i would venture to say the day isn’t saved
by my miscalculated wordsmithery
The frippery only serves to swerve the eye
from the true the real to the skewed appeal
of a boyish grin,
a charming nod,
a cock of the eyebrow and away we go
But the world catches up to this superhero
A stray meteorite and I’m cut to the quick
I’m short to the fight
I duck and I stick but
I’m hit I’m hit I’m hit Read the rest of this entry »

I think this comic is beautiful. Put out of your mind Charlie Brown or Ziggy. This is a story, more like a tale. The writing has the rhythm of a fable. The pictures with its bold thick lines and clever use of color enhance the tale.

It’s sad. But it’s beautiful.

She trolled the thrift stores regularly, snatching up interesting knick-knacks and distressed clothing. Items that possessed something she sorely longed for—history. She bought T-shirts from volunteer organizations, men’s vests from mighty patriarchs that have passed on, postcards that weren’t written to her. Not having a story of her own, she appropriated someone else’s.

She carried her license loose in her right pocket along with her car keys and a phone number she never calls, having long since forgotten who it belonged to. She carried it out of habit. It was a comfort to her; something that was wholly her own even if she doesn’t know the meaning of the scribbles.

Sometimes I write these disjointed pieces of prose that have no connection at either end to anything else. I think of them as fractured short stories or novels I’ll never start.