Howie Good

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On the Anniversary of My Demise

Sleep is a box with holes punched in the lid, and when you emerge from it, you’re amazed that I’m still scattered like musical clues all over the mall parking lot, unusually full for this time of year with naked blondes and images of the national bird and a few old winos, one of whom, singing something about Jesus’ wounds, cradles armfuls of the hymns used to feed dumpster fires and dying supernovas.