Neither Sun nor Death
—prose poetry by Howie Good

Neither Sun nor Death

They are beating the cars with metal bats. I think, “Am I supposed to be here?” That thing is on fire in a big way. I don’t get outside as much anymore. An illegal string offset “echo” has disappeared into the archive, to be handled by only people who wear white cotton gloves. I’m left to just cry. You need to be careful in interpreting that. Every day I confront the same choice: stay inside or perish. Somebody grabs Suzanne’s hair and twists her neck. We make eye contact. I know tulips aren’t spelled two lips.

Howie Good is a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, the author of five poetry collections, and a Contributing Editor for The Commonline Journal. His most recent book is Cryptic Endearments from Knives Forks & Spoons Press. Other books include Elephant Gun 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. Access his blog Apocalypse Mambo.

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