Plastic flowers

If, after all the dying, this is all there is, words, words, words, and dollar-store plastic flowers, I don’t think much of our chances. Sing again, dance again, draw new cartoons. You can be killed any time by someone you don’t know. A man camping overnight in the woods wakes up from a dream of a bear biting his head to find a bear biting his head. Billions of us occupy the same small planet, but it only seems like we’re sharing.


This isn’t any ordinary day. Slippery is a word that’s everywhere. Coated bullets are slippery. Tears are slippery. People slip away over the border. There’s nothing left to see here. Nothing. Flowers that were supposed to come back every year haven’t. It’s a vagabond life. The laundry on the line turned black long ago. Our goal, obviously, is to keep ahead of the fire. But you know what? Flames behave in ways no one thought possible.


No one will believe me, but the Angel of Death had yellow and black wings that looked gold and gray in the setting sun. I feared what might happen next. The locals could still remember when the synagogue was used as a stable. All they said to me was, “Sorry, we made a big mistake.” Yes, Kafka’s sister lived there, too. She picked up a spider she found in the house and put it back outside. Give thanks to thoughtful hands.

Howie Good
11 07 16