Deep Moaning Blues

They’re traveling incognito, George Washington with a moustache and Abe Lincoln without a beard. Time is like a river that has jumped its banks and carved a brazen new course through the ruins of fabled industries. They follow its many twists and turns, only to find themselves weeks later cold, ragged, and hungry, and under perpetual ban. Meanwhile, killers walk around free if they’re white and have a badge. It’s as though the laws have been rewritten by malignant algorithms. A night of solid sleep is impossible. The moans that keep waking me up, I finally realize, come from me.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

The Mustache

Last Tuesday morning, I woke up with a moustache. It had not been there the day before. It appeared, fully formed, overnight.

My new moustache seems to have a mind of its own. I used to smoke regularly, but it will not abide by any kind of flame close to my face. It also has a taste for jerky.

My girlfriend, thinking it was one of those fake 'staches you wear for Halloween, tried to pull it off my face. Let's just say I'm single now.

And I know it is only a matter of time before it kills again.