We were shooting fireworks, chilling, and then we saw the cops come. I remember thinking, “Do we belong here?” Here everyone is special, and so no one is, even the dead ones we love. Yesterday was supposed to be a holiday and a celebration. But just taking a picture of explosives bursting in the air doesn’t mean anything. The whole century suddenly came together for me as fat Elvis in cape and white jumpsuit.

*

The wind was dangerous. We knew it was dangerous, but people wouldn’t listen and more kept coming. They had a vacant stare. They had a stumbling gait. Their heads were drooping. You could see thick saliva dripping from their mouths. Soon they were screaming for help. We saw bodies everywhere. So many were just skeletons. I was standing behind that tree over there. I just kept thinking that it’s easy to run in a dream without getting out of breath.

*

None of it makes sense. It’s like my legs have carried me here by themselves. We don’t have a grasp on what the mechanism is yet. The real soldiers wear rags on their faces. I’m looking, but I don’t see my child. Things happen to people, and people don’t really understand how easily those things can happen. First they’re an animal, then they’re a volcano, then they’re playing with their cat, then they’re making songs, then they don’t finish the song and they’re jumping into the void from an elevated point.

*

Howie Good is the author of The Loser’s Guide to Street Fighting, winner of the 2017 Lorien Prize for Poetry from Thoughtcrime Press. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely.  

Photography by Miles Marsico 
Having been born into an aristocratic Italian family, as a teenager Miles shunned his privileged upbringing to tour as a member of an elite European acrobatic circus. After deciding show business wasn’t for him, he settled in LA and now works as a lab technician at Caltech. Find him on Instagram as @sexyinternet and on Twitter as @ROTFASTER.
Thursday, July 12 2018