|||

Prose poems by Howie Good

Cops Seek Masked Gunman

but find only a crew that parachuted into a Neverland after their plane was shot down last century during World War II…a couple arguing in the street like Rimbaud and Verlaine when they were lovers and drunk and at odds about money or poetry…your dentist, probe in hand, bent provocatively over an attractive woman patient in his home office, while out front former role models load his furniture and other possessions into a U-Haul truck…oh, and a long, tedious stretch of highway that ends abruptly in a human eyeball displayed like an exquisite jewel on a square of black velvet.

Bad Shit

There’s bad shit going on. An unexploded rocket sticking out of a field. Wildfires capable of creating their own weather. Supply chain problems. Often one has to make things oneself in order to have or see them. Just ask meth cooks what that means. Bodies are lying here and there and walking through dark forests. They whisper, Who are we fighting?” Some are packing bags just in case the enemy comes this way. A scared older woman confesses, It feels like they’re already here.”

For MM

The ground is wet with rain, and yet a book is lying there dry. I pick it up. Whoever snapped the photo used on the cover was either too excited or in too much of a rush to hold the camera steady. The faces of the naked women standing in an open field are blurred, less visible than their dark triangles of pubic hair. Soldiers gesturing with rifles have lined the women up in a front of a burial trench. The women keep their arms folded modestly over their breasts, still concerned for decency. Everything that isn’t a predator is prey.

Being Geniuses Together

Beethoven would chase after rats with a meat cleaver (the bite of a rat flea infected him with the typhus that helped destroy his hearing). I have also read that he had a bossy, off-putting manner and an unfortunate face, and that he dressed shabby by design more than necessity. At the world premiere of the Moonlight Sonata, he played with such violence that strings on the piano broke. I picture him as alone when he emerges from the recital hall that winter night. It’s been snowing. The streets are deserted. He has left an unemptied chamber pot under the piano.

Howie Good

Up next Fiction: "The Rabbi, His Dominatrix and Me" by Emma Burger How to Use Spotify [Anything for a Weird Life]
Latest posts VOLTA (FOR BAUDELAIRE) by Noah Rymer 13 ANGELS BEAT YOUR ASS TILL YOUR ASS STARTS TO LOOK LIKE A FLOPPY SACK by Tyler Dempsey NIAGARA by Juliette Sandoval TO MAKE OF THEE A NAME by Andrew Buckner Two poems by Jessica Heron "Grocery Outlet" by Lisa Loop "Gatorbear" by John Biron Interview: Skizz Cyzyk on Baltimore Filmmaking and the Mansion Theater "On Time" by Hanna Webster "Only the Most Neutral Executioners" by GRSTALT Comms Poems for Clara Peller by Ella Wisniewski "I've Got a Fake I.D. from Nevada and No Name" by Max Stone Truth Cult (Last Show) [Anything for a Weird Life] Three poems by Stacy Black "Bob's on Fire" by Alex Tronson Two poems by Alexandra Naughton Reflections on Series Two: How Does He Do It? [Anything for a Weird Life] "A Sadness that Sings" by David Hay "The City" by Ryan Bender-Murphy Three poems by Abigail Sims "The Depth of the Abrasion" by David C. Porter Steve Albini 1962-2024 [Anything for a Weird Life] Some Things are the Same Everywhere [BRUISER Field Report] BRUISER ZINE 005: Foul Black Rookeries by David Simmons "Bilbao" (for Richard Serra) by Damon Hubbs Beyond Periphery by Ada Pelonia Mayday [Anything for a Weird Life] "Drones Drones Drones" by Aaron Roman Review: White Paint Falling Through a Filtered Shaft by Adam Johnson "Buckskin Jacket." by Noam Hessler A User's Guide to Universal Order of Armageddon (Numero 221) [Anything for a Weird Life]