January 3-9, 2011: Janann Dawkins and Howie Good

Janann Dawkins


Bio (auto)

Janann Dawkins’ work has appeared in publications such as decomP, Existere, Mezzo Cammin, Phoebe & Two Review, among others Leadfoot Press published her chapbook Micropleasure in 2008 She is on the editorial team at Third Wednesday A graduate of Grinnell College with a B.A in American Studies & twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, she resides in Ann Arbor, MI.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Janann Dawkins and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Road Trip Desert

I read to her from a guidebook about this area,
especially regarding Saguaro national monument
of which there existed two parts Sarah asked me where each of them were, and I told her
the East was very near the Air Force base,
the West way on the other side of Tucson.

Monday, on the way here,
we stopped at a road rest stop for lunch,
where the Kiss Road Crew was tossing around a frisbee;
they inspired us to get out the Aerobie We stood there in the desert, surrounded by Arizona sun, barefoot Laughter echoed from mountained flanks.

And later I somehow started staying even
with this silver pick-up truck,
the guys inside ending up Marines We drove side by side for a while,
Sarah talking to a skinned-head guy
covered in tattoos he’d designed himself:
an inverted ram’s head, three gaunt fingers,
an arched lion’s paw, Sandy, rainbowed disembodied wings He gave her a Zippo with an eagle motif.

Nevada’s state line stood thirty-six miles
from our disheveled brown motel room
when Sarah decided she wanted home I turned off the old Sony t.v and asked her
Why did we come this way to turn around
for twenty-three hundred miles? Eight wasted days
of traveling?
Her eyes were odd, drunk from gazing
at galaxies and star charts the night before I hate brown she said Everything looks dirty She said Take me through Utah I’ve
never seen the mountains there
So I drove her through steep lavender peaks dollopped with snow
to a bus stop outside of Salt Lake City
and asked her to await my postcard when it arrived in Ann Arbor I said to her Watch out for Mormons.

Saturday, the Nevada desert grew cold
outside of Carson City, the lumpy, dirt mountains large
and ominous in the dark I ate at a truck stop
to raise my spirits from abruptly riding Highway 51 alone Inside I saw other drivers, seemingly stranded like myself,
absently fingering half-emptied coffee cups, their eyes
full of black desert sky.
Previously published in The Freehand Press (Spring 1997)

Dreaming the Angel

The muscle beneath, the scar to come:
communicable, a telepathy:

his skin and nerve cannot prepare
but know it still: the injury,

the bruise beyond the sacral plate It seeks a surface Tidal, drawn

to atmospheres outside its wake—
it breaks the ligament and tears

a shape much like a crescent shell Now he walks like Israel.




Howie Good

Bio (auto)

Howie Good is the author of the full-length poetry collections Lovesick (Press Americana, 2009), Heart With a Dirty Windshield (BeWrite Books, 2010), and Everything Reminds Me of Me (Desperanto, 2011) He lives in Highland, New York. 

Visit Howie on the web here: http://apocalypsemambo.blogspot.com/

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Howie Good and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Mix a little gunpowder with saliva Memory is a building,
a fountain, a madman who becomes calm on seeing a sheep In floats an empty word balloon It shimmers like the
ashes of some extinct halo.

You dread the cough of a stranger Agents sent to
investigate force the prisoner to kneel The hand that
stops moving still holds a pen Your ancestors saw so many
witches they ran out of stakes to burn them all I wipe my
eyes; I was once a fan of riddles myself Tiny flying
things with grinning monster faces continue their dance.

Fireworks in my chest, and there’s a fresh dusting of
snow, a white hare without fur or bones.

Ghost Train

Everyone else is gone I’m watching a movie by myself You
can’t doubt the existence of hell, the fat old priest
says You live in it.

I’m talking soothingly to a starving dog There are no
people on the street, but if there were, they would avoid
my eyes On the hill above town, golden halos encircle the

Run, you yelled, run Others chose suicide The only
dreams I seem to remember are the nightmares Barbed wire
and concrete, shaded in the summer by young maples.

The hit man feels around under the bed His fingers come
away covered with blood He looks up at the fat priest I
don’t think God is interested in me, he says.

It’s been a lifetime of evictions and surplus
Kalashnikovs The train could leave at any moment No one
I ask knows where it’s going She has one foot on the
platform, one foot in the air.

The View From Highway 1

Snow predicted A red tractor

nuzzles in a corner
of the bare field.











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