Now That The Buffalo Are Gone

by Howie Good



We were fighting the Indians in Florida. You said a joke without a punchline isn’t a real joke. Why I always carry an arrowhead in my pocket, I said. Children passed over the hill, a coffin covered with wildflowers, but Thoreau only came out when there was a fire downtown. The tall ships of the China trade returned empty. It was a sign of something, like a face shaded by a wide hat.


About Howie Good


Howie Good resides in the vortex of a bad karma tornado.







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