by Howie Good
An Atlas of the Human Mind
The idea of murder
resides in fragmentary
and elliptical phrases
(victim, killed, confessed)
alongside salt and ash,
an area of gray matter
that looks suspiciously
like daytime Detroit,
only with flaming riderless bicycles
passing on the street.
I want to ask why a tattoo of a dog’s face
on the back of her calf. Only attendance
today at the guided tree tour prevents me.
Things made of wood, things that are heavy,
things having four legs, all communicate
through operatic singing. Take the word
“table.” And just like that, the leaves light up
as if I’ve won a trophy for bowling 200!
I’m beginning to dread Thursdays.
It’s all drips and splats.
Jesus Christ, how things change.
I’m not the mad bastard
shouting at the world anymore.
I’m getting older.
I believe in science.
What is soft dick rock?
I want clear answers.
Balloon dogs seem gratuitous.