Wednesday, August 22, 2018

Howie Good - Three Prose Poems

Sex Ed

We’ll again be able to walk from here to the Netherlands. I just don’t know exactly when. Sex is also a great form of exercise. Yeah, every day. And it doesn’t require a lot of foreknowledge. I should close my eyes. I should. But, instead, we just go, “Wow.” If you think it could be, but then say, “No, it's not like that,” go with your initial instinct. What's most challenging is seeing the same story repeated over and over again. We’re not inventing anything; we’re just stealing from others really well.

Death Notice

Friends I haven’t seen in years have told each other I died in 2012 under sordid circumstances – debt-ridden, detested, abandoned by everyone, communicating only with pigeons in a Boston park. Actually, I still have feeling in pretty much every part of my body. We used to wear cufflinks and tie clips. Now there are flash drives and meth cooks and what sound like gunshots. People need to be careful. Autocorrect can take you only so far. Do we even sleep? Sometimes we erase a memory here and there, but that’s it.

Blue Love

When the police arrive, chairs and tables and cups are flying everywhere. The police have dogs. They have helicopters. I stand on the sidewalk, just trying to seem normal. Some people are dealing drugs; others, dumping bodies. I see something big floating. At first I think it’s a dead cow. Then it flips around and looks at me, and I say, “Tiffany, it's a bear!” We all start laughing because it’s hard to believe. It’s like getting a blue hug from the sky.

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