Howie Good’s newest poetry collection, Heart-Shaped Hole, which also includes examples of his handmade collages, is available from Laughing Ronin Press.

Mood Indigo

A specialist has proposed prying open my skull to get at what it is about me that bothers everyone. I don’t have to be told there’s always the risk of catastrophic side effects, immolation high among them. Sitting alone in a brunch place at a table for two, I feel the dismissive glance of a stranger brush against my cheek. It’s yet another in a series of lessons on the marginal status of bald men. By the time I’m back home I’ve scratched the bites on my arm until they’re bleeding. A stack of mail bound with a rubber band drops through the door slot. There’s nothing for me.

Man Is a God in Ruins

From where I sat on the sand, it looked like a bulky carcass of some kind, a great grayish mass upon which a dozen or more seagulls perched, was floating in on the tide. The lifeguard vigorously blew her whistle. Most of the people playing in the water ignored the shrill alarm. Other beachgoers actually reacted with anger. “Whatever happened to the right to be lazy?” I heard one sunbather complain. I’m not into cosmic things, but I didn’t have a choice. The dismal clouds that had begun to gather over the bay resembled nothing so much as a band of estranged angels coming to take revenge. Only if you have ever experienced a broken heart yourself can you truly judge.