Sprite Stories

I. Invisible Criminal “Caution, approaching platform.”   We’re nothing but invisibles now Strangers on a train, that clichéd rift Spun up, up, up in far off Hollywood lights With those backstage sets and the rain machines Dropping watery gems into silver tears The real fucking tale Behind those Westside Blues Where you’re a Maria and I’m a Tony Just star-crossed fuckups miscast and misplaced Cuz this ain’t no Broadway ske...

I. Retrograde One of our old haunts, a repurposed manufacturing plant, still hums with life on breezy Saturday nights. Used to come here every weekend. Her great escape, a middle finger to her name. Detach from reality and just… exist. Breathe, ya’know? Be straight average for a change. Slip into the other side. She never said it, but I could tell she hated that bitter chaos circling in her head. That suffocating truth of...

I. Jitterbug Stand clear, doors closing. “Ya think Sting ever really thought about all the unspoken moves behind Every Breath You Take?” I don’t look up. I try to focus on getting this quick sketch just right. Shading. Light. Blending. But you’re like that lone fly that gets in when you leave the sliding door open too long. Zoom! And it hides like a stain you don’t even notice until you do. And when you do it prickles lik...

I. Vicious State of Mind “Caution, approaching platform.” The announcement drowns out the clipped whispers, but the furtive eyeballing remains. Some knew me immediately. The celebrity-like recognition flashed like fat paparazzi Nikons as they traced the familiar tattoo slopping down my cheek, burning into the path of another that peaks just above the collar of a grimy Seattle Sounders T. Most don’t. You got the ones boyco...

I. Prison Blues and Familiar Faces Buzzed in and buzzed out, Cameras tracking shadow with Glass eye and red blinking light One last fuck-up, one lapse in judgment To send black ass back Under boot of man. No luck, no attempt, Just shuffling feet. Trading orange jumpers for denim and whites A pair of Jordan’s no memory of owning. There’s a pocket worth of change And a broken watch, That skips back and forth Tick tock, four...