three poems
by Howie Good
Sing a Song of Six-Packs
A committee of biased judges travels from town to town with a portable guillotine. If the chickens in a coop can peck a fox to death, and they can, no one is safe. Whang! The volcanic blast of a Fadd9 chord on a 12-string electric guitar calls true believers to prayer. A pill I take sometimes before bed to help me sleep leaves me feeling drab and stupid the next morning, barely able to put two words together – moose, Indian. I’m just another old person with purple bruises on the back of his hands. The lone crow on the wire also needs consoling, like the gun Van Gogh used to kill himself.
Tongue of Fire, or How the Old Make Love
It’s spring at last, death on hiatus, and I’m upside down and on top of you, probing for your sensitive secret with the tip of my tongue. You taste like the salt marsh smells: pungent. Suddenly you moan. Behind closed eyes, you see the long, slow sweep of a lighthouse beam and then flying embers as a red sunset unravels and lightning explodes. A shudder rips through you. Afterwards, we lie side by side, out of breath and with our hearts thumping, more proof, if needed, that the old are a beautiful ruin.
Resistance Is Futile
There are about 90 million dogs in the world, and each and every one of them, no matter how pampered or puny, is descended from wolves. I was 3 years old, maybe 4, drawing with chalk on the sidewalk when a German shepherd attacked me like it was specially bred to maim and kill little children. All in all, I’m lucky to be alive, even though I do suffer from dark thoughts and disturbing dreams. One night I dreamed dreaming itself had been outlawed and the authorities had prepared an abject confession for me to sign. The first time I read through it, they watched the expression on my face, frequently hooting in amusement, as if nothing is funnier than unhappiness.
Photo of Howie Good
BIO: HOWIE GOOD is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose latest poetry collection is True Crime from Sacred Parasite in Berlin.