A Poem About Saint Gut-Free "Here's the job I left to come here," the Saint says. "And the life I gave up." He used to drive a tour bus. Saint Gut-Free onstage, his arms folded across his chest-- so skinny his hands can touch in the middle of his back There stands Saint Gut-Free, with a single coat of skin painted on his skeleton. His collarbones loop out from his chest, big as grab handles. His ribs show through his white T-shirt, and his belt-- instead of his butt--keeps up his blue jeans. Onstage, instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment: the colors of houses and sidewalks, street signs and parked cars, wipe sideways across his face. A mask of heavy traffic. Vans and trucks. He says, "That job, driving tour bus . . ." It was all Japanese, Germans, Koreans, all with English as a second language, with phrase books clutched in one hand, nodding and smiling at whatever he told the microphone as he steered the bus around corners, down streets, past the houses of movie stars or extra-bloody murders, apartments where rock stars had overdosed. Every day the same tour, the same mantra of murder, movie stars, accidents. Places where peace treaties got signed. Where presidents had slept. Until that day Saint Gut-Free stops in front of a picket-fence ranch house, just a detour to see if his parents' four-door Buick is there, if this is still where they live, where pacing the front yard is a man, pushing a lawn mower. There, into his microphone, the Saint tells his air- conditioned cargo: "You're looking at Saint Mel." And, his father squinting at the wall of tinted bus windows, "The Patron Saint of Shame and Rage," says Gut-Free. After that, every day, the tour includes "The Shrine of Saint Mel and Saint Betty." Saint Betty being the Patron Saint of Public Humiliation. Parked in front of his sister's condo highrise, Saint Gut-Free points to some high-up floor. Up there, the shrine of Saint Wendy. "The Patron Saint of Therapeutic Abortion." Parked in front of his own apartment, he tells the bus, "There's the shrine of Saint Gut-Free," the Saint himself, his pigeon shoulders, rubber-band lips, and baggy shirt, reflected even smaller in the rearview mirror. "The Patron Saint of Masturbation." While each seat in his bus, nodding heads, craning their necks, they look to see something divine. Excerpted from Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk Haunted is a 2005 novel by Chuck Palahniuk. The plot is a frame story for a series of 23 short stories, most preceded by a free verse poem. Each story is followed by a chapter of the main narrative, is told by a character in main narrative, and ties back into the main story in some way. I have decided to make a series of portraits of each of the 19 characters in this book. The title quote is the first line of each character's story and the description is each character's poem. The portraits are my personal interpretation to the words of the book.

Stripes just won’t go away but they have changed a bit since the nautical invasion a few years ago. Now there’s a stripe for everyone. Gone are the days when someone could say, “I just can’t wear stripes.” Look around at the different types and styles and you’ll find something. I can’t lie; I’m not a fan of capri pants. They are tricky to wear; you must have the exact length (a good tailor helps) and if you’re on the shorter side perhaps walking shorts should be substituted. However, at the perfect length and with a good shoe (like these espadrilles in the middle) they can look great. This is not from your childhood tie-dye kit. Tie-dye is bright and fun but it all depends on the style. This Etro dress is really bohemian but in a simplified form it will be a great sunny afternoon choice. And maybe one day this summer you can pull out the rubber bands and make your own t-shirt. Everyone needs more gym shirts and sleeping shirts, right?