Poem: Howie Good


Towards an Autobiography Written in Braille 1 I was born at six in the evening. Rumors that the doctor wore black gloves are untrue. A mouth rimmed in salt pressed against mine. I thought I was dead. I wished I was dying. 2 There were five men in the café with hats before them on … Continue reading

Poem: Howie Good


Insomnia Makes A Dull Companion You can get your picture taken with the fat Elvis or experience a serial killer’s brain floating in alcohol. Branches shake where the missing children have just passed. A woman waits in bed like a satin pocket for your penis and a crust of dried blood. Death is there, too, … Continue reading


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