by Howie Good
A famous man’s youngest daughter, tormented by visions of burning airships, trips the metal detector. I feel like an empty gray glove. Strangers crowd into the elevator with us. Only later do they think to ask if we’re going down. The weather has turned. Buds pop, a nation of suicide bombers in dynamite vests.
Hear that? A low wailing? Like a tornado of meat flies? I must have signed my name in the wrong place or acquired the wrong kind of expertise. As I drive into town, the glass eye soaks overnight in a glass of wine. No one among my so-called friends volunteers to save me. There used to be a rule, Monstrous face, monstrous soul. The crow furiously pecking at something red in the road ignores it.
I make a cup of my heart, what should not be but is, the cloud shapes like accusations increasingly hard to dispute. A pornomaniac has been nailed to the cross among the agitators and shoplifters. Why take sides when it could not not be? Love thy neighbor, the homeless man under the stadium says, communicating with obscene gestures rather than words.