The love is not in the lust, it is in the betrayed.  Closer than that, Walter.

Or perhaps the lust sees love in her murderer at the very end.  An end is what she loves.

And who are we?  The entertainer?  Should we cast out our eye?  Will the shimmer of ankle take us the road to the cemetery? Straight down the line.

Yet we pace our apartment considering the fruit, behind bars of lighted lattice.  And murder can sometimes smell like honeysuckle.

But one step is the next and the next until three honks and it is done.  And we can hear our steps no more.

What do you want?  In a shadow world what do we want?  Is this our soul?  The journey we have trod?  What do I want?

A love that is Love.  A light that is Light.  A fruit that is Life.

Rating (-5/+5 scale): +2
(that's a 4 star review on Netflix to give you reference)


What is in a V?  Victory, the fifth, invading aliens?  Or in the case of Warner Bros's title-making team, it is presumably short for versus (though it should include a handful of aliens as well).  Late March is supposed to bring Spring as well as the next stage of Warner Bros and DC Entertainment attempting to bite into the money sandwich on which Marvel/Disney has been feasting at the global theater box office with their superhero cinematic universe.  It has been abundantly clear that DC has been looking on with an envious eye as their younger brother in both the comic and movie worlds reaps the harvest on the tights and cape market in the cinematic sphere.  And thus Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice is supposed to begin the short road to a Justice League movie endeavor.  As a psuedo-sequel to 2013's Man of Steel, Zack Snyder returns to his world of brooding and codpieces.

To be short with it, I did not like Man of Steel and I do not expect to enjoy this next installment.  So let me quickly get off that train.  However in contemplating the coming movie, I had the thought of pitting the two hallmarks of justice-as-enforced-by-spandex in my own form.  Thus a project came to mind.

What is this project?  It is to face off some standard of the Man of Tomorrow's legacy against that of the Caped Crusader's.  Now this is not a playground argument over who would win in a fight: I find little to no interest in these kinds of discussions.  Who is the mightiest in a fight has little bearing on the quality of a character and his or her journey.  It will be such match-ups as Superman's Golden Age comics v Batman's (sorry about all the v's I am going to be throwing; it is just such a silly thing that I can't help but annoy everyone by emphasizing) or a face-off between the heroes' Rogue galleries.  Which hero has the best dog alternate, Krypto v Ace.  Christopher Reeve v Michael Keaton.  The possibilities are endless.

Now it doesn't take much exploring on this blog to realize that sometimes I promise posts I never deliver on, especially as it comes to comics.  I promise no further posts, only attempts and subsequent guilt on my part for missed posts.  That's your only guarantee.  Good thing this all doesn't matter an ounce.

More qualifiers, I am restricted by resources, obviously.  Time and access will be limiting factors to what I am able to accomplish.  Another impairment is that I am far from an expert on these two characters.  I have been a Marvel zombie and presumably will always have more Marvel in my blood than DC.  Most of my foundation for these two characters even comes from the 90s cartoons that Bruce Timm spearheaded.  I have serious gaps in my knowledge of these characters in their near-80 years of existence.  This will hopefully help me to learn more, but I am not an exhaustive fount of knowledge on these two.  I will do my best to relay the relevant data to the given contest at hand, yet I am sure I will fail.

I suppose another matter of significance is my view of these characters coming into the quest.  As a child, there was no contest: I liked Batman and Superman hardly interested me.  I will always incline towards those who have no powers, so the proposition of a man with none against one with a mishmash of whatever the writers felt like adding at the time was a no-contest.  I loved the Batman '66 TV show of the Pow!s and Bam!s, while totally aware of all the silliness.  And then the animated series released in 1992 and that was that.  Bats was tops of the Big 2, hands down.  A fellow that could do anything just was not interesting to me.  Then Supes got his own animated show, and despite it all, it was pretty dang good, too (if this goes long, both these shows will get many mentions).  And there were certain notes that struck, but I left them mostly ignored.  Batman was better.  End of story.  Yet, some of those notes have continued to ring and in fact resound with growing amplitude and I find myself more and more interested in the Big Blue Cheese.  And then there is my twisted sense of underdoggery which means as popularity swings more and more the way of the Bat, I want to find more and more reasons to protest...  I would love to say I am not motivated by popular opinion, but this is just not true.  As people find Superman less and less relevant, my desire to protest finds more and more reasons he is what we need.  In summary, I grew up with a distinct fondness for the Dark Knight and a belief that the Man of Steel was perhaps a little dry and boring, but am presently at a place of appreciating both, with a special attention to making up lost time on understanding the Last Son of Krypton.  And these are the bedrock for the longstanding DC comics and more so the superhero comic genre.

First stop on this merry adventure, First Appearances! Action Comics #1 v Detective Comics #27


The dreamer despairs under the blanket of the repeated note: a melody of the simple and the quiet, a note.  She whispers her wish to the winds, and as a twisted act of the djinn, she receives curs├ęd answer. A fulfillment.  The monotony is broken.  Her forever sun falls under a shadow.

The mystery twin returns.  They entwine in vector, resurrect: rise from crypt.  They are the hope of rebirth to the other.  The unadulterated and the adult.  The one to shake the sun from its ever gaze; the other to paint the virgin scent upon his troubled trail.

The clean cast water of the sainted rose meets the blood of the east. And the lies begin at where is the end to the mask? Charm and anger, a sharpened smile to the free mourner.  A crimson streak through the clear stream.  And your heart trembles as the dreamer's dream crumbles.

You twist and sway with the moving eye.  Descent and dance until the rise of a gasp, and knowledge is born.  Knowledge is born and innocence dies. The twisted twin twists the words of life, twisting sight and sound.  And your eye accompanies the dreamer's eye, you gaze in horror.  You chorusate her protest.  Are they not human? The snake turns. Are they?  He pierces you.

As the corruption spreads, the waters taint, the words walk, and smoke trails.  And the dreamer nightmares.  She of pure speak, of pure love, of pure sun, speaks murder.  And you know despite eventual demise, the demon has won.

The home, quiet worn and white is weapon. The unquenchable sun day is eclipsed. The dreamer's dream is corpse.

Rating (-5/+5 scale): +3


The indelible image from the original Star Wars movie was a young man staring off into both a familiar and alien horizon.  A sunset as we have all seen, but as we have never seen before. For in this sky there were two suns. And yet the boy is not staring at the marvel of the suns but what lay beyond.  No image better abbreviated the desire of the Hero's Journey, the longing in every heart for that Thing.  That unattainable unexplainable Thing of Things.  And the marvel of that original movie was it captured a glimpse of that Thing of which myth is made and woke it up in many minds, large and small.  The movie awakened us to something simultaneously fully familiar and yet so very alien at once.

So to what horizons does the newest movie in this series point? It points us back to that original sky of two suns falling into a red desert with a swell of music that tells us everything our heart seeks.  Ultimately it is a movie of looking backward and a glimmer of hope in looking forward.  It is a movie that even tells us through the voice of a new character that looking and hoping in the past carries false promise and it is to the future we must seek.

We see a new hero look upon a very similar desert landscape, but through the lens of a helmet of the past, dreaming the dream of audiences for the past near-40 years. Longing to be in the adventures we grew up in.  We see a villain caught up and praying to another ghostly helm: caught up and being destroyed by his worship of the things of yore.  So what is this nostalgia: savior or destroyer?  

The Force Awakens is in so many ways a creature of nostalgia.  Its very design is to be a reminder of its origin.  But is it looking forward?  Are we moving towards the new or are we backtracking towards the comfortable, camping safely in the nostalgia of a generation raised on droids and lightsabers?  Are we still striving towards the binary sunset, longing for what is next or have we fallen into a complacency: perhaps victimized by the brilliance of the originality of the first Star Wars we can never see beyond the model it has set for stories to come?


I surmise the shape of glass yet forth sand flows. And the bird laughs. The little blue one. Whose name a sand itself for all my grasp to grasp. Dances the wind and sings it soar, the little blue one. My hand, the sand, the flow. And the bird laughs.

I whistle the wind with mimicry most. A stroke and a song, I sweep through the air. But a breath of breeze denies the name, the word, the tongue. And I hear the laugh. The little blue one. Whose beak is blood. My blood, your blood, no blood. 

I crawl a crack of rock to climb the sky. And daylight breaks my grip. A wing melts. And a plummet. Yet a little blue fly flitters my fall and caterwauls the corpse of me. The little blue one. Whose wing is white with dust. And cane.

I run a rage of noncontent. With this furious feast of fear. I seek the truth and echo a lie. And my legs sever saving. And the feather silences sad at my crooked cracked leg. The little blue one. Whose heart is whole with ambrose.

And she asks me my name. And I cry rigor
And she asks me my name. And I cry fool
And she asks me my name. And I cry darkness
And she asks me my name. And I cry sand

And the little blue one. Takes flight.


A sign of lightning, a fire
Astonish the air to dance
The trees expect
A heaven's cry
And here, I whisper

Along the city's wonders
Fancy and fantasy twist
A child's eyes
A sparkle bell
And here, I whisper

Wind carries to bridge unknown
To garden historical
To mount untamed
To river fast
And here, I whisper

And it is all true, all false
And I have no answer for
The terrible
But hear, I whisper


And in every leaf a kingdom
A journey through the wind
Every crack a clarion
To the waiting watcher west

But this night a night of silence
Where canine never speaks
And a river is just a river
And sleep is just the end

It a shade, a mystery
Of effervescent dark
With joyful fear I venture
In trail of singing night

But now a song is words
In rhythm and in rhyme
To simply run a high and low
And fully end in time

I will dance upon the stream
Dance upon the cliff
I will drink ambrosial drink
Overflowing and with laugh

No, it is a tired thing
Graying, dying grass
The water murking 
Ever grasping for a breathe

And crowns and queens 
With court and bard
Grail, beast, and lair
Quest abound 'pon every tree

Yet it itches and it scrapes
It bites my heart
And tells me of the real things
Whose names are all a-named

And a creak is a story
Which I swim and I drink
And I am overwhelmed
And I sink and I love it

And I cannot breath
The water drowns
An old man
He sinks
And cries