It’s when you’re trying to talk about God and you don’t know how that you wish you had finished college. And it’s always this bad. Dylan’s one-eyed undertaker sniffs for decomposing corpses in the rubble, while souped-up cars thunder down the street, where any moment you might encounter a suicidal poet splattered with his own blood and brains. Despite everything, Anne Frank insisted people are basically good. But all I remember is sunset devolving into querulous flames in a town so small it doesn’t have police, and a child with a balloon held down by a wave and given a dead bird, a dead butterfly, used condoms, and lightly rippled hair.
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.