Graphic Journal Feb. 23rd

23 Feb

I found my pocket knife.  Not like you really cared.  I didn’t tell you it was lost, I didn’t tell you it was missing.  I began the search for it last night in the perils of my sleep figuring that this would be the one thing that could splice my dreams in half when I stumble upon a testifying stump of impatience.

What if each blade on a pocket knife represented different personality traits?  Would this make a Swiss Army Knife the most charismatic of the pocket knives or the most annoying?

My fingers teeter on the groove narrowed in among the blade done dull.  Snaggle-toothed, the tip of the widest calls out looking for a loved one amongst saturday morning cartoon shows.  “Old Timer” plastered to the side in brass with grooves along the shaft acting like a fingerprint.  It needs to be sharpened: sharpened like a mind that has been in front of television for the last eight years.

Dirty and stained with black fragments of glue from some art project gone wrong, maybe sap fell into the springs and shuddered along its spine.  Three blades and the middle does not close.  No locking device, no safety device.  Rubbed thin along the edges by a grandfather with diabetes.

What if I did tell you that I loved this knife?  I don’t.  But, what if I told you that?  Can a man love a lethal object so?  “Guns” you throw back at me.  “Dicks” I throw back at you.


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