by Howie Good

Today’s rain falls on yesterday. You rush from one side of town to the other, trying to fulfill ancient prophecies while God’s bearded face sways above you. Dogs howl ceaselessly as though protesting how important man is. It isn’t quite night yet. There are doors that only seem to open and never really do.


Hands pantomime tossing bombs, slashing throats, counting money. Power is the only political party. The seven hills upon which civilization was founded have since sunk under the cumulative weight of human excreta. Elephants in India are drinking wine and passing out in tea gardens.


And this isn’t even the worst part. No, the worst part is that all that survives of The Messiah, the novel he was writing when he was shot dead by the Nazis, is the first sentence. A 100-year-old former concentration camp guard has only now been arrested on 3,518 counts of being an accessory to murder. I heard that and thought, “Up, you corpses! Get up!”

HOWIE GOOD’S latest poetry collection, Gunmetal Sky, is available now from Thirty West Publishing,