Death to the death of Poetry

I’ve been to homes where they’re sitting shiva, a lot of people crammed into a very small space, their voices tuned to nervous whispers. This isn’t like fixing a Monet after someone has punched a hole in it. In one house a poetess, dressed in a sinister black pinafore, stood by an open window with the alphabet prowling around her. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I wanted to yell. “Don’t you realize how dangerous that is?” But the thing that really haunts me is that a wind rushed in, and birds with it, and many were just skeletons. Now dark red petals fly over us in our sleep.

Howie Good

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Author of:

The Loser's Guide to Street Fighting

 

Highland, NY