Howie Good 1 A man jammed fistfuls of earth into his mouth. And why not when nations sell weapons to their enemies? The weather arrived late, a funeral with only four mourners. All his life he liked to wander through cemeteries. If everyone is doing it, someone said, it must be OK. 2 Probably the first paint was animal blood. He asked for a razor. Born on a cold day, he took with him a heart always about to break. He was found, years...

The poet reads and discusses his process and aesthetic.

Howie Good Oh, habitués of the walk-in clinic! Oh, aficionados of the cockpit voice recorder! Nothingness isn’t something you sleep off in a doorway. The buildings are full of forgotten vaudevillians and signs that say EXIT, and every panhandler demonstrates the doubtful efficacy of begging. Light slows to a trickle. The sun has gone behind a cloud. Minutes stumble like horse thieves leaning over the necks of stolen horses. Howie Good...