Howie Good's latest book of poetry is The Complete Absence of Twilight (2014) from MadHat Press. He has several poetry books forthcoming, including Fugitive Pieces (Right Hand Press) and Buddha & Co (Plain Wrap Press).
like lois lane, she sits
in a coffeehouse, eyes pensive
trying to find a happy ending
in a dime store novel
her hair is black as midnight
i ask her if i can sit down
she says," no thanks, i'm waiting for
she's waiting for the bus and
her eyes are holding the dawn
she grips her briefcase
like its the presidential football
i notice the swell of her breasts
her eyes could be my kryptonite
i make small talk
and her words are gold
but she says " i'm waiting for
even if i could detect her secrets
with x-ray vision, it would be futile
she is gone, though she sits next to me
i see the american flag flapping like a cape
in the wind
she's heading home, another lonely
night, she's " waiting for superman"
i've got swag like a football team
enough nerve to leap tall buildings
i make ordinary words extraordinary
i could love her like the world
but she'll sit at home again
waiting for superman
Erren is a Pushcart nominated poet based in Portland, Oregon,
by way of Salisbury, North Carolina by way of Chicago,
by way of Louisiana, by way of Maine, by way of California,
by way of New York City, by way of Burlington, Vermont,
by way of Louisiana and so on. She has been writing for
25 years and has over 150 publications in print and online
in such publications as Hiram Poetry Review, Mudfish,
Poetry Magazine(online), Ceremony, Cactus Heart, Similar
Peaks, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Salzburg and other
publications. Her most recent publication was in The
Rain Party and Disaster Society; she has also been
published in anthologies such as " Fertile Ground,"
and Beyond The Frontier.” Her work can also been seen
on Youtube under the " Gallery Cabaret," links.
She is also the author of the chapbook, " Disturbing
The Peace," on Night Ballet Press.
She received her B.A. in English-Creative Writing
from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge.
She also loves to read and she loves to travel, having
visited 45 states and Canada and Europe. The themes
in her writings vary, but she has always had a soft
spot for subjects and people who are not in the
mainstream. But she never limits herself to anything,
I hold thinning paper
in clammy hands,
lose my identity on it
by mistake. I crinkle
its abdomen with pressing
fingers, tightly rub
in my self-doubt
beneath my thumb.
I’ll lose my name
if I press hard enough,
erasing my prints off
the tips of my fingers,
like hair that’s been washed
too many times, strands
that fall out and get lost
on my shoulders or through
tumbled fabric. I’ll keep
those loose ends as warnings,
curls that tickle some sense
into me when tucked
into dryer sheets, bed sheets,
lying in sheets on my bedroom
floor. Those tumbleweeds
that catch my cold
toes in the middle
of the day, the sun ripping
down my blinds as if to say
I’m here, I’m here.
The mirror watches
my face get swallowed up
by the sun that sneaks
its light behind the slow
clouds. My eyes grow wide,
my eyes grow wild, always
seeking whatever falls behind.
Lana is currently an MFA Candidate in Poetry at the
University of Central Florida where she also serves as
a Teaching and Editorial Assistant for The
Florida Review, UCF’s national literary magazine. Her poetry has appeared in The Holler Box and The Cape Rock.
Humpty Dumpty dude jots orders with flamingo pen,
scoops rocky road and mango ice cream for tweens
who scream preceding soccer practice.
Humpty places waffle cones oozing melting mounds
into holders on the countertop near antique register,
accepts cash only. An older couple off the Interstate
step forward on tanned legs in Bermuda shorts plaid.
The woman under white visor orders a pistachio shake.
Her hubby in button-down shirt pink, masquerading as boyfriend,
chooses berry banana split, demands in southern twang,
“No cherry, Sir.”
A young woman with a parted fro leaps forward,
her asymmetrical skirt, twirling yellow as sun flow.
Tap tap acrylic nail to laminated photo of frappé on countertop.
We chill at blue-mint booths.
He comes to us as waiter, delivers tropical smoothie
and orange Crush pop in a bottle, chilled.
He waggles behind counter, washes knives in a sink,
wipes equipment sterile. Mops tile.
Efficient as fish fins in water. He comes twice as server,
delivers ice waters as if a mind reader and
lunch with a clank of condiments (without request).
We’d slam a $100.00 tip on the table if able. Why not?
It’s a sweltering 103 degrees out. Heck.
We go, stroll sidewalks, flip-flops melt soles.
Humpty’s up on the rooftop mending the air conditioner.
If he goes tumbling, who will bus the tables?