Howie Good


A bird flies off just as I happen to look up. Suddenly relieved of weight, the branch invisibly vibrates. They say a soul weighs, on average, 21 grams.

When the great sage rose at last from meditating under the huge shade tree, the creatures thereabouts followed him with their eyes, as though compelled to look by the crisis of the small bird that, gripped in his hand, was trying to spread its wings.

That was years ago. Strange black flowers painted on the sky by bursting ack-ack. White threads of the waterfall. Tonight I will try again for the music. Name a capital of a country. Change the first letter to name a familiar musical instrument. Example: Lima = limp, limb, lime.

Beg For Sleep

Some see the face of Jesus in a slice of toast. Some hear voices. Some line their windows with aluminum foil. Some stagger as they walk. Some beg for sleep. Some stare at the ass of the girl in front of them on the escalator. Some – and no one knows who exactly or how many – have been captured by robots. Some slit their throats and bleed out. Some are stitched back together. Evening is near, and sometime after dark, some float like echoes over paving stones made from the gravestones of the Old Jewish Cemetery.

After April

Begin sweet world,
street of broken glass
policed by mobs,

while somewhere
behind the wall
on which shitbirds
are casually perched,

a blonde chases
fold-up paper pianos

and a vast potential
audience of roses
shimmers in absentia.


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