Echoes of Silence
Nobody knows who he is. Killed the family and went to the movies. Meat tenderizer and saliva remove bloodstains. Fornication changes its skin. Goodbye to the story, memories they told me, trees in autumn (three colors: white). Join us at another place, a polemical mile-high skyscraper. Free wheelchairs available.
Beg for Sleep
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 gravity of his bearing, or the enigma of his half-frown, or the crisis of the small bird that, gripped in his hand, was trying to spread its wings.
Clouds follow the dragon, wind follows the tiger. Each follows its kind. A soldier crouching in a freezing marsh for hours later discovers a fish in his pocket.
A bird flies off just as I happen to look up from what I’m doing (nothing). Suddenly relieved of weight, the branch invisibly vibrates. They say a soul weighs, on average, 21 grams.
Our fathers made things, made things into things, made things from things. There will never be silence. Cars with breasts and fins tarantella over paving stones made from the gravestones of the Old Jewish Cemetery.
Captured! By Robots
Some experience a sunlit, mescaline glow they mistake for “enlightenment.” Some hear voices. Some line their windows with aluminum foil. Some – and no one knows who exactly or how many – have been captured by robots. Some put on Vivaldi, and if it works, sex toys in cheerful colors cascade down. What seems real is real and arrives in reverse order of importance – a woman seen from behind sponge-bathing at the sink, and then streets policed by vigilante mobs, and, after April, a vast potential audience for roses.
Howie Good‘s latest book of poetry is The Complete Absence of Twilight (2014) from MadHat Press. He has several poetry books forthcoming, including Fugitive Pieces (Right Hand Press) and Buddha & Co (Plain Wrap Press).