Its breath on spiral staircase rolling in waves of unread
paragraphs; the sleeping giant distant as a myth is given by rite
of spring. Listen. Witness visions of infant baptisms in holy
chrism, the cries of which rile the beast with childish echolalia.
Notice its mass, its sheer dominance motionless, fearlessly.
Another instance, notice the rolling hills behind gentle foraging
massive, playful. Prairie lizard frolic in the autumn mist a spirit
scent of children laughing. The rolling hills behind perpetual
perfect service provider. Forked tongue flames lick the air for
best reception over clear channel broadcast.
Dredge through fledging story in stammering manner against
inherent flanerie; open doors wedged with sworn oaths by pledge
of alleged sledgehammer. By dark and by silence, espy the snye
astride the riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore
to bend of bay, at bay, and stray not wayfaring stranger.
Seek the open landscape batwing flutter. Exalted One once
exhumed once hatchling prepare for takeoff, weather permitting.
Speak once upon a time upon the launchpad; one small step and
puff and gone in a cloud of smoke and away we go in leaps,
The stars beckon. The clouds (a shroud of sky) belie heaven.
What chain of command goes hand in hand and step by step side
by side with a basilisk! What cloying pacifist ploy to destroy its
temple cave, save a gravedigger, but a masochist? None but a
blasphemous cleric don the tetragrammaton, so to speak.
And so, to boast is bleak and thus barren. So black and radiant
and severe, thus explosive. From three to seven headless
allegories scorch the course of farsighted challengers; structural
integrity compromised by ball of fire. Fall, aquarius moon, into
the jaws of the Leviathan (an alms to the olm). It’s been a long,
long, long day.
Angelo lives and writes in Philadelphia, where he serves as founding editor of Empty Set Press and hosts Oxford Coma, a nihilist poetry reading series. His work has appeared in Yes Poetry, Luna Luna, Occulum, Be About It, Mad House, Apiary Magazine and elsewhere. His chapbook, HEROINes, was released in March 2017.
This isn’t like fixing a Monet after someone has punched it. Horrible things are happening. My foremost thought is, “I want macaroni and cheese next time. I haven’t had it in years.” All of a sudden EMTs rush past with a man on a stretcher, his face covered in blood and bite marks. I scream something – in terror, I suppose. The last time I was so unsteady was probably when my mother died. I feel like any minute now I might look up and see her in the window of a plane
waving. A policewoman orders me to move along. And I was just about to ask, “What advice do you have for young people?” It was only a couple of days ago that some kids grabbed a classmate and persuaded him with fists and sticks and colorful arguments that one eye is enough.
"Are You Fucking Kidding Me?"
Groups of friends arrive on the hour every hour. A guard with the enflamed eyes of a drunk demands identification from them, but in a voice too faint to hear. You need to be patient at this stage. People don’t remember and sometimes I think they don’t even understand where they are. Cows roam around with butcher knives in their backs to make slaughtering easier. There are countless dead rabbits. A fly can't land on a fruit tree without first begging permission. So I just
sit here with my mouth open, I do, because I’m getting older now, and it’s hard work.
Howie Good is the author of The Loser's Guide to Street Fighting, winner of the 2017 Lorien Prize and forthcoming from Thoughtcrime Press, and Dangerous Acts Starring Unstable Elements, winner of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry.