Traveling through streets of winos, we held hands the whole time, the driver taking us
wherever he had been paid to go. You spoke of home, the curious blue fog, a funeral
attended by only four mourners. I wanted to say something, too, but it was now night and
rainy, and I had just enough body to keep a soul in.
I wake up feeling no better – worse, in fact. The news advertises the apocalypse. I think
about changing my name and leaving, but I can’t while I’m still half-asleep. And where’s
there to go, anyway, on a morning being built from cannibalized parts?
Tell me something interesting. About constellations. Or Portland, Oregon. Maybe Facebook.
One of those. Everyone I know who has a job hates it. I find running at the bottom of a
swimming pool relieves faux pain. Last night Jesus appeared again on TV claiming that he
was Betty Lou. And though there was no wind, the puddles shivered. None of this could really
happen, of course, until it does.
Howie Good is the author Dreaming in Red. Proceeds from the the sale of the book go to a crisis center.His chapbooks include The Devil’s Fuzzy Slippers (Flutter Press) and Personal Myths (Writing Knights Press).