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. A receipt from an electronics store in Phoenix has disappeared into the archive, to be handled only by 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. Someone grabs Suzanne’s hair and twists her neck. We make eye contact. I know tulips aren’t spelled two lips.

Howie Good
01 22 18