Dispatch From the Crash Site
Sitting in a pensive lotus position came to be considered the ultimate act, more than just suicide. Moments of exhaustion led to a glimpse of everything being pulverized. The largest pieces were the size of a small car, while the black flecks scattered across a remote mountain included two babies. Halfway through Tuesday afternoon, the weather deteriorated, with a chilly rain falling, so I thought it sounded just like that, the head of a sobbing woman.
The Apocalypse Cha Cha
Often eyes become red, and all because four-hundred bullets per minute go roaring off on joyrides. That’s when I start thinking, Whatever happened to the right to be lazy? The world has developed a taste for the miserable, the beheaded Christian prisoners who can’t quite get things together. There’s actually a kid in full goalie pads outside the Stop & Shop collecting money for a pantheon dedicated to them. My life also seems kind of Laurel and Hardy, a kiss of fire accelerant, the whole jamboree vulnerable to the odd stick of dynamite. Souvenir hunters won’t even bother to wait until the ashes cool before they begin searching through the wreckage.
Waking Up In Dreamland
When I woke up, I was here, surrounded by objects I might trip over in stepping back to take in the view. There was a cow, or at least what I thought was a cow – it was hovering and it wasn’t an aircraft. I felt as if saints in red robes were discoing inside my head. How could anything bother me on such a day? Just then it started raining. I mean, something happened, something I didn’t actually see, broken people and animals far at the bottom of a grievous dream.
Howie Good‘s latest poetry collections include Fugitive Pieces from Right Hand Pointing Press and The Cruel Radiance of What Is from Another New Calligraphy.