Three Poems by Howie Good


To do without doing – as when the undiscovered corpse of a shut-in explodes in the heat! The ancient Chinese prince had only to sit in the right place, facing south, for the war of all against all to end and every house become a factory. We ourselves know neither war nor peace, but 10,000 nasty little incidents, the tops of flaming pines frantically waving while the devil’s fuzzy slippers shuffle along the forest floor.


In the first act, the children of illegals sew their lips shut rather than snitch. In the short second act, I fuck so hard I practically die, tilted back like a dentist’s chair, the voice in my head ironic and not my own. In the last act, how cynical of the sun to shine.


A flock of blackbirds
with the blazing tails of comets
beats about in a gale, trees
splinter, and everywhere,
the empty eyeholes of a skull.

Profile: Howie Good

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