Animal Man #7 begins a new story arc ("Animal vs. Man") which falls far short of the bar that writer Jeff Lemire and artist Travel Foreman set when the series debuted as part of the New 52.

It's in the form and not the function where this story about a reluctant protagonist and his female android fails as serialized fiction. It would be like if Tim and Dawn or Mulder and Scully's romance played out once-a-month instead of once a week. Alex + Ada is as soapy as a Jane Austen drawing room dramedy. Either allow it its soapiness or get out of the Scandinavian-designed kitchen.

As my little league coach would say when an infielder made a diving stop only to sail his throw into the parking lot, Marvel Knights: X-Men #1 only makes half the play. But damn, I wish it was more, 'cause it was a hell of stab to start.

I have a lot of respect for Montclare. I backed his previous effort with Reeder, Halloween Eve, when it was a Kickstarter and did likewise when the duo first launched Rocket Girl in the same fashion. I will continue to support their efforts because the work holds major potential. If Montclare muscles up to the heights Reeder consistently achieves than Rocket Girl will fly. And so: Godspeed, Rocket Girl.

What happened to the steampunk-dolphin from the first issue? Why hasn't Snyder gone back to the future and instead remained in the past? Noble savages with laser cannons have cach, but so too does Darwin from seaQuest DSV.

Deering and Mooneyham craft a beautiful panel about halfway through Anathema #2 that strikes a perfect balance between art and text; a breathtaking image that is emblematic of the story itself. Mercy extends a "nice-to-meet-you" blood-stained paw to a young girl that she saved a-moment-ago. The girl (looking like Alice, pinafore dress and all) recoils in fear and fright. She screams, "NYAAH!" Mercy's narration is cool, stoic: "No matter how I try, I cannot speak." Maybe this is a glimpse into Mercy's (un)merc(y)ful fate -- mute and misunderstood, a true anathema. Anathema is a brilliant idea and this panel shows exquisite execution on the part of the artist and writer. Deering doesn't want to murder her darling, but rest assured, she's sure as hell going to make Mercy hurt.

There is that balance of wackiness and serious that makes this work. Fraction has said that these guys will be treated like the Fantastic Four so prepare for some classic Marvel villains to come out of the woodwork and not hold anything back. Considering who is at the helm here I have little doubt there are more than a few extremely entertaining issues to come, so if it takes a little while to get off the ground I'm willing to be patient.

As creators, what Kowalski, Casey and Simpson love is pillow talk, which is perfect for a comic called Sex.

I only thought 'sex police' was a thing in that one Whitesnake video, but since issue one Fraction seems fit to bring these three white-suited -- now dildo-wielding -- cock blockers into Jon and Suze's reverie. It's saltpeter in an otherwise ballsy narrative about men, women, love, sex and relationships and the whole sweaty mess. Go figure, some dicks are always trying to ruin sex for the rest of us. At this point, Fraction and Zadarsky have me by the short and curlies " here's hoping they don't fuck it up.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles #29 showcases the greatest trick(s) of serialized storytelling: it pushes the reader forwards and backwards, equally compelled to find out what happens next and how the story got here in the first place. Now that's good comics.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles #30 continues to work the grey seam of recovery with the froth and foment that comes from feeling adrift, alone and unloved.

There's no need to pussyfoot around the fact that capes crowd so much space on comic book store shelves that there is little room to swing a cat, which in the case of Tiger Lawyer doesn't really matter since it's self-published. Ferrier's whip smart idea is on one hand so ludicrous while on the other so relatable that is one big ball of promise. In its defense, Tiger Lawyer shows its stripes by being an infectious joy that playfully sinks its teeth in deep enough to court a closer examination. Case closed.

Captain Marvel kept its own hours which is why it ended after seventeen issues. Like Hawkeye and Daredevil, Captain Marvel was one of the few must-read Marvel titles due to its idiosyncratic and keen take on finding the heroic in the quotidian; and of always being self-aware of what it was: a superhero comic book.

The good news is God Hates Astronauts will run eight issues, ten, at best, an adulterated un-fucked-around-with distillation of why we can't have nice things. Embrace the insanity, embrace the stupidity: God Hates Astronauts #1.

You can pick up this issue on Wednesday, December 12, 2012, but in the meantime you can read Keith's interview with Jamie S. Rich on this very site!

Calvin and Hobbes works a different side of the street than Letter 44. What it shares with Watterson's masterpiece is the idea: 'predictability is boring.' If Alburquerque and Soule maintain the energy and promise of this first issue, 'magic will out.' In a story full of probabilities, disappointments be damned. Read Letter 44 and revel in the risk.

Locke & Key is a team sport. The fact Hill, Rodriguez, Fotos and letterer Robbie Robbins worked together on every issue is as much of this story's legacy as the story itself. A work so grand resists prcis, best to simply ask: 'Who's there?'

It's fashionable nowadays to wrap a story arc with a palate cleanser character study. Where Graham and Roy break from tradition (?) is to show Diehard's life in montage, a life of war, but also full of families, children and brothers-in-arms. Graham makes Prophet more than its reductive descriptor, 'Conan in space,' by letting the sci-fi fly and allowing creators to create. Prophet #39 goes the does likewise for the 'old robot.'

If Prophet dropped off your pull list shortly after its relaunch by Graham in 2012 either because it was too weird or art wasn't Steve Platt enough for you, fine. To be honest you haven't missed much especially where continuity and other narrative fetishes like 'plot' are concerned. Prophet occupies a pocket universe in mainstream comics as much as any title from an Eisner winner (Graham) with distribution by a publisher who has cannily aligned itself with creator-owned content could ever wish to achieve. In some far flung future, Prophet will be a departure point for the promise of comics. Marks as pictures, marks as words, fuck yeah.

These few (and quite correctable) flaws don't darken what is (so far) an otherwise stellar series. Saga sets art alongside language to create a story that cleaves to the very soul.

Brisson's spare approach to storytelling borders on McCarthy-esque. The reader receives only what is needed and nothing more. Hailey and Victoria's story of survival nests inside (is sheltered by) the overarching narrative about the survivors of a survivalist compound; it's a smart move by Brisson and adds depth and scale to an otherwise small canvas. I suspect this nesting instinct to expand to other characters until morale improves which should occur the first of never.

Suffuse with its peripheral glimpses of mangled flesh, acute madness and overall terror, Bunn, Del Rey, Garland and letterer Ed Dukeshire allow The Empty Man to prey on the reader's anxiety of what's happening and for the sake of all that is holy " why.

The Massive is a moveable feast of agonies, a Gethsemane on the waves. Leave it to a writer with Wood's inimitable talents to make a reader even consider life worth saving. How Christ-like. Populations are being snuffed out. Cal is dying. And the sharks are circling.

Sixteen issues in The Massive remains a pillar in this golden-age of creator-owned comics.

Imagine if Gaiman -- with Williams III and Stewart in tow -- let Sandman rest and instead of this overture what if he went back to the time when he was ushering Sandman into the public's consciousness. When he dressed like a Ramone, was all detached cool as he walked the corridors of the Fort Lauderdale Airport Hilton and chatted up hotties. Somewhere Tommy Tompkins of the Newsboy Legion weeps.

*I'm starting this rumor; it has no validity whatsoever unless, of course, Mr. Belanger wants to "go with it."

What are we dealing with here in Prince of Cats? This is a book that you have to spend time with. This is a book that crawls across you and with each moment of progress it leaves indelible marks on your soul. This is high end tragedy mixed with martial arts, street art, and blood on the dance floor. Wimberly has created a distinctly American drama out of the Shakespeare's B-sides and once again re-affirms my belief that comics can be absolutely fucking brilliant.

Follow Keith on Twitter at @keithpmsilva or (for the more adventurous soul) read his blog, Interested in Sophisticated Fun?

The Massive plies weighty waters to be sure and issue #6 is no exception. The flavor of moral ambiguity that Wood trucks in here is straight outta Dostoyevsky which month-to-month makes for great drama and greater suspense. So, to quote Mag: "Are you in?" It's as simple as that.  

In the end, the one who's in perpetual progress with this comic is the reader. As we consumers become more embedded in the world that Wood and his fellow creators build; as we dig deeper into the people he writes and the incredibly complicated and morally compromised panoply that Wood designed, we are slowly, gradually changed. Good fiction has the power to subtly affect our perceptions, forcing our minds to progress in new directions.

Seven miles a second equates escape velocity, how fast one must go to shed gravity on a drive to the infinite. The cornerstone of comic books is escape; the ability to be faster than, more powerful than, to leap higher than. 7 Miles a Second achieves all of these things. Wojnarowicz rails against strictures, gatekeepers and forces that try to hold him in place. An escapist like Wojnarowicz knows it's not what one escapes from that is important, it's where one escapes to that makes the difference.

Kill Shakespeare acts as more than clever wordplay on The Bard's name, it's a fiction's kind of fiction, a play within a play and Tide of Blood brings forth a brave new world into this sharp series.

Those at ease with playing the fool, the more drool among us, might call this latest chapter: an open book. Too often, the middle section of a story acts as only a way-station to somewhere else. McCreery, Del Col, Belanger, Chankhamma and Mowry make every word, every panel and every page count, nothing is superfluous and everything comments on everything else. Let Tide of Blood wash over you and soak it in all the way up to your eyeballs.

Locke & Key: Alpha #1 hurts. It's visceral and corporeal, a story felt, in the gut, in the heart and in the soul. Above all, Locke & Key: Alpha #1 is not a story one ruins for others. These are, after all, anxious times for our heroes, as Kinsey says: ''I need to feel something besides panic.''

Del Rey doesn't sling ink as much as she bathes the page in the stuff. Her impressionist's eye gives this story about an assassin and assassinations an unreal and ethereal veritas. She kills quick with sawtooth panels and shadowy compositions before Zero and Nova face off and the story becomes all sourness and light. Del Rey distills her talent into a single image, the horses. An image so enigmatic it haunts the narrative and on its own makes Zero #6 a leader for best single of 2014.