Saturday, January 21, 2017
2 prose poems || Howie Good
The heart was once the seat of judgment. Poor leatherette! The fog is rising, and there’s a calendar with tear-off squares for each day until we reach the end. Failure to follow these warnings could cause serious injury or death. And who the hell wants that? It was Circus Town USA the first time we fucked, something like 40 years ago. Tumblers were here, and a dancing bear, the beautiful riot of bareback riders, while all the clowns, dozens upon dozens of them, honking and flopping, somehow found a way to fit into this tiny flowered car with us.
Digital Stockholm Syndrome in the Post-Ontological Age
An angel descended via a system of ropes and pulleys. “Who would you rescue,” the angel asked in a barely audible voice, “your wife or your child, if you could rescue only one?” A wino pissing in a corner of the bus shelter responded for me: “Go fuck yourself.” So the angel doused him in gasoline and set him on fire. It’s something I haven’t fully solved. I remember thinking, “What is it with angels, they never speak above a whisper.”