A woman calls 911 to report hearing terrible noises in men’s heads. Where would we be without cell phones and computers? Astronauts rocket into space in search of solar systems where the planets are made entirely of drugs. Today’s sky has the yellowish tinge of tarnish on old silver. The masses remain baffled, angry, but strangely inert. An unknown caller leaves a voice mail for me, a series of threatening gunshots. The faces on U.S. currency must/must not change. And Melania Trump knows exactly who she is married to. l press myself further into the background, loyal only to the light that is lost or stifled or goes uncreated.
Howie Good is a writer living on Cape Cod. His newest poetry book, The Dark, is available from Sacred Parasite, a Berlin-based publisher.
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