Spring 2008

Volume 3, Issue 1



The Poet Confronts His Inner Critic


Oh, admit it, it was you who stole
the pencils from my begging cup,

induced the green parrot to fly away,
advised me in a dream to avoid

the woods and the less traveled roads
and keep to the town.

Now you’re back, you bastard,
and in winter, too, as the frail snow

inscribes itself regardless on the sills
and sloping roof of this poem.



Order Lovesick, a poetry collection by Howie Good, here.


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© 2008 Americana: The Institute for the Study of American Popular Culture