Words Fail Me
That isn’t Brando wearing Brando’s hat, and this isn’t Trieste-Zurich-Paris, 1914-1921, and there isn’t a sequel to Blow-Up titled Throw-Up. Only the lucky—or mildly dyslexic—get to see the face of Jesus in a slice of toast. I can’t even recall Theodor Adorno’s real name, just that it was something Jewish. I’m full of ugly trees, angel exhaust, and, when words fail me, as they more and more do, what sounds like the wet and contagious cough of Chinese trumpet lilies.
‘Admiration Is the Emotion Furthest From Understanding’
Admire the Japanese beetle, luminescent green racing stripe between its bombazine wings/ admire the sky, shredded and fading, like the eyesight of a syphilitic/ admire the woman from HR who drowned herself while on vacation/ admire everyday objects – brown beer bottles, metronomes, gas fireplaces – some with only one good eye, some with a dog’s heart/ admire the phenomenon represented by the word “glint”/ admire the refugee writer Theodor Adorno, though that wasn’t his real name/ admire cadences long since replaced by the stuttering silence that we pretend, for the public’s sake, suffices.
Howie Good's latest book of poetry is The Complete Absence of Twilight (2014) from MadHat Press. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely, who does most of the real work.
Whatever is obsolete is free for the taking. I have a box full of photographs I've taken of clouds! The process is one of clinging to scarce fragments floating around me and tying them together to avoid drowning. Being a misunderstood, isolated creature opens up a certain aspect of – or angle toward, or a certain quality in – time. Balloon Pop Outlaw Black, let’s say. Pointless weirdness gets old fast but I can’t help myself...Whenever there's an interesting bird, I run outside and shoot it.
Thoreau only left the woods, his face shaded by a wide hat, to borrow a pencil but found out there was a fire downtown and stayed to watch. Buddy Holly looked right at him at the show in Duluth three days before the plane crash. Now kneeling like a supplicant, he weeds by hand around the base of the statue of himself, the air vibrating with the lurid farts of the souped-up Mustang that forever rumbles through the suburbs.