Art History

A stranger walked up to me on the street and said with a quaver, “I am completely overwhelmed.” He was wearing a black raincoat that reached down below his knees. Wait, I thought, it’s not raining. When we’re dead, it’ll be a whole different story. Cosimo de Medici once complained to Michelangelo, “That sculpture doesn’t look like me.” “Listen,” Michelangelo told him, “you’ll be dead in 20 years, this will be around for 2,000 years. So that’s what you look like!” And now, even though it’s nighttime all over the world, there are pictures on fridges and music in elevators.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and The Bad News First (Kung Fu Treachery Press).

Lonely Planet

Sometime after midnight I stepped into a smoky cellar bar, gave the miserable clientele the once-over, and located an empty stool toward the back. The bartender, a cigarette between his lips, was drying glasses with a dirty rag. In my beret and belted black raincoat, I might have been taken for a fugitive Trotskyite – or perhaps the assassin sent to execute him. A woman slipped onto the next stool. She had a face like that of a 13-year-old girl who died of heart failure following prolonged laughter. “I am here to entertain you,” she said, “but only during my shift.” From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and The Trouble with Being Born (forthcoming from Ethel Micro-Press).

A Long Trip

The neighbor came over and knocked on my door. The rain fell in torrents.

“Come inside,” I said.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just be a minute.” Garbed in a raincoat, he rested an axe against his shoulder.

“Returning this,” he said.

“Oh, thanks.”

“Might be a bit dull.”

“No problem. I have a whetstone.”

“Need another favor,” he said.

“Sure.”

“Need to borrow a shovel.” I thought it odd, but I fetched a shovel for him. He turned and began to leave.

“Hey Bill,” I said. “Is Grace back from her trip yet?”

He walked away. Only the wind replied.

From Guest Contributor Dave Lignell