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

Janann Dawkins
littlejosie444@yahoo.com 

 

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
goodh@newpaltz.edu

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.

Riddles

1
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.

2
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.

3
Fireworks in my chest, and there’s a fresh dusting of
snow, a white hare without fur or bones.

Ghost Train

1
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.

2
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
searchlights.

3
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.

4
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.

5
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.