Howie Good

My heart is apocalyptically yours, a grand piano burning on a lonely stretch of beach, a kingdom composed of tiny but belligerent principalities, an SOS sent from deep space. It’s a story told in jump cuts and flashbacks, the flashbacks arranged in no particular order. It’s the 15 billion trees a year felled to make toilet paper. It’s a stack, a very tall stack, of old faded deconsecrated flags. It’s an unseaworthy raft. It’s a forgery of the famous painting of lovers flying through the sky locked in an embrace. It’s a scar dimly shaped like a tulip about to bloom.