Howie Good – 2 poems


The Most Remarkable Substance Ever

Eight famous lesbians who were married to men had escaped our notice. Here’s why – not the 20 most terrifying spiders on Earth, or mysterious lights in the sky, but a dog born with deformed front legs that ran on 3D prosthetics. My face showed nothing of what I felt. Others huddled in family groups, debating alternative uses for leftover candy canes. “Don’t you think NASA should hide this picture?” someone asked. Only those there from the beginning had an opinion. The rest of us couldn’t believe who Abraham Lincoln’s relative is.

NB: Based on clickbait on MSN Home Page, 12/25-26/2014



Preparing for the Post-Apocalypse


A military band strikes up a rousing tune. The age of criminal responsibility – that is, eligibility for the death penalty – must have just been lowered again, this time to twelve. Even the innocent have begun to speak in code. “Rain” means that a neighbor has been arrested, “snow” that a curious bystander is missing. Easily, almost absent-mindedly, a shadow on the scale of a metropolis has evolved. You’re not familiar with the science of it or, for that matter, with what happens to those who believe their own computers spy on them while they sleep.


I have returned repeatedly to the beginning, where the night is still being tilled by insomniacs. Ideas come to me the same way they come to flowers, encountering the same bookcases without books, the same insults, the same anachronistic Soviet aesthetics, the same darkness in the same unknown. Grandma Gussie (my father’s mother) lived her last 10 years groping for bowls and spoons in the ever-deepening gloom of glaucoma. A cart is bound to appear sooner or later to collect her body. Hundreds of us line the street in excited anticipation. A photographer, a black drape over his head, is setting up a shot. I have a question. Why does it have to be in focus?


Clouds of Zyklon B, guaranteed to kill 99.9 percent of human bacteria in 20 minutes, roll in at dusk. I wish now that I had finished college. It’s a wish without any discernible purpose as events gain momentum. The county poorhouse begins to rock wildly from side to side. What would Jesus do? Kiss his ass goodbye is what. Every day 2,400 Americans – give or take – go missing, hiding out under assumed names, abducted off the street by strangers, or, as in this case, burned up like fuel in a rocket streaking from the tomb.



All proceeds from Howie Good‘s latest book of poetry,  Fugitive Pieces (Right Hand Press), go to the Food Bank of the Hudson Valley. Visit here!





About gobbet

gobbet is a literary magazine dedicated to publishing the very best experimental poetry and prose. Intellectual perversity and explorations of dark themes are positively encouraged. We are only interested in work that is progressively experimental. We want to see risks, and we want to see them pay. No previously published work. Prose should not be longer than 1000 words. There are always exceptions. Send 3-5 poems. Include a short bio. Send submissions to Work will be published every 5-10 days. We also intend to publish anthologies of selected work published in gobbet. We will do our best to reply promptly. Most submissions will receive a decision within a month.
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