“Incurable” by Howie Good

1
The moon is only thirty-seven percent full. Who do I blame? Which of my forefathers wore a long, black cape as if hoping to hide a deformity?

2
Fortresses and hiding places, everything has its shadow, a mysterious, pregnant traveler in Bavarian hotels, dark half-moons under her eyes.

3
The world is so overloaded with ordinary human things that it sometimes leans precariously to one side, and I feel the dead eyes of pawnshops and check cashing stores on me and the dingy sky scattering just about everywhere incurably dingy blossoms.


HowieHowie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of five poetry collections, most recently Cryptic Endearments from Knives Forks & Spoons Press. He has had numerous chapbooks, including A Special Gun for Elephant Hunting from Dog on a Chain Press, Strange Roads from Puddles of Sky Press, and Death of Me from Pig Ear Press. His poetry has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net anthology. He blogs at http://apocalypsemambo.blogspot.com.

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