Previous Feature: Howie Good
Howie Good is the author of Dangerous Acts Starring Unstable Elements, winner of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry. His other books include A Ghost Sings, a Door Opens (Another New Calligraphy, 2016) and Robots vs. Kung Fu (AngelHouse Press, 2016). He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely.
The smaller of the forest animals have started hanging out together for mutual protection. Meanwhile, the firehouse dog asleep by the stove dreams of people demonstrating in the streets, fires burning underground. It’s been quite a shock to discover that an American president might be a Russian agent. Simple Simon says, “Go totally nuts.” I want to shout, “Fuck yeah!” and throw blood at the wall and decorate my face with it. But, of course, what happens? There’s now a cookbook of everything Brad Pitt has eaten in a movie.
Ladders Cross the Blue Sky in a Wheel of Fire
It used to be a beach. There was sea. There were rocks. I used to fish. I used to see seagulls everywhere. But today there are none. Of course, I am missing them. They were entertainment for us, watching them fly.
Failure to follow these warnings could cause serious injury or death. Nearly every night I have catastrophic dreams of swastikas, Trump, border stops. I speak to the eye. I speak for trees. You only hear the monotonous sound of the red sun gnawing at the spider. The bassoon is an instrument that deserves more respect.
WTF?! Spies are everywhere. “Grawlixes,” they reported me as saying. I don’t know exactly when I’m supposed to have I said it. The very first thing I do in the morning after waking up is take a pill that “May cause drowsiness.” And that isn’t necessarily a time to wear party hats. I just felt I had to do it.
Someone is throwing a stone at a bird. Oh good God, that guy! I look a little bit like him. Were you there? Did you witness it? Then you can kind of quietly approach people and go, “Understand? Understand? Understand?”
Poet’s note: The first section is a remix of quotes from the New York Times’ article, “On Lebanon’s Once-Sparkling Shores, a Garbage Dump Grows,”
“Over Our Cities Grass Will Grow”
It was a Sunday, four days before Christmas. Choppers and drones were all over the sky. Tourists who had taken selfies at the Holocaust Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe posted them to Facebook. A gnome-like man with a greasy comb-over said, “Everything is art, everything is rubbish.” You made up your own myth, and when you did, hoodlum types were observed entering expensive autos. But was that necessarily a problem? I myself became distraught at being left stranded on a dark road, especially as the I Ching advises, “Wait in the meadow.”
Preliminary Material for a Theory of Sleep
Pubescent girls dump menstrual blood into the street in protest. You can’t imagine it if you haven’t been there. We’re living in a preposterous age. No one will ever figure it out, including me. A mob passing by the window chants, “Fuck the clown! Fuck the clown!” They don’t understand the difference between art and crime. A 90-year-old widower phones from Florida in the middle of all this. “What’s another word for ‘nonexistent’?” he asks, as if trying to trip me up. That’s the point. I just sleep whenever I feel sleepy.
All Hail! Edited by Howie Good and Dale Wisely, White Knuckles Press specializes in publishing online chapbooks of prose poetry. To learn more, simply click on the logo below . . .