To see the fire coming at you from five mile away, like a funeral cortege covered in red bite marks, was proof, if any of us needed it, that it’s not pleasant out there, that, in fact, it’s close to fucking awful, one moment after another teetering on the edge of calamity, and yet the story goes that when Matisse was old and incapacitated, too feeble to get out of bed without help or even comfortably hold a paintbrush, he rubbed charcoal on the end of a stick and made drawings on the ceiling – it had just seemed so empty.


Howie Good is the author of three recent collections, I’m Not a Robot from Tolsun Books, The Titanic Sails at Dawn from Alien Buddha Press, and What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Image — “Peasant Burning Weeds,” Vincent Van Gogh, 1883

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