three poems
by Howie Good
The Waltz of the Snowflakes
A soldier snatches the crying baby from its mother and swings it by the ankles and smashes its skull against a wall. All good stories, Hemingway said, end in death. I’m walking through streets I’ve never seen before, a key gripped between my thumb and forefinger. If necessary, I could use it like a knife, slashing an assailant across the face or stabbing him in the eyes or throat. Once paranoia touches you, you belong to it, you’re branded for life. A working girl leaning in a doorway grins at me with amused contempt. I hear a low rumble then, as of God clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention. Heavy snow is predicted, 6 to 8 inches, the white ash of burned corpses.
*Originally published in BRUISER
Erik with a K
“Ah, the cows. . . ,” Erik Satie sighed with his dying breath. Killing is prohibited by the Sixth Commandment. A shame dying isn’t, too. I have what’s called radiation-induced neuropathy. The nerves in my upper torso are frequently a torment, a frenzied swarm of stinging insects trapped beneath the skin. About the only thing that cuts the pain is marijuana. It smells just as skunky as it did when I was young and cool and smoked copious amounts for nonmedicinal purposes. Now it jams the mind-body connection, interrupts pain signals. And for hours at a time cows lie down in the grass with hungry wolves.
A Dog’s Life
I was 4, maybe 5, and afraid of dogs. They say dogs can sense fear. The German shepherd sprang at me as if originally trained for concentration camp duty. Everything went black. The doctors told my folks I might be left blind in one or both eyes. A fine black thread of anxiety runs through my life history. I cope, but only by exceeding the maximum daily recommended dosage. In Mississippi a man confesses to setting fire to a synagogue because of the “Jewish connection.” I strain against my collar, a dog on a chain.
*Originally published in BRUISER
Photo of Howie Good
BIO: Howie Good is a widely published but little-known author.