by Howie Good It crawls through trees, a smell like the rancid diapers of the spawn of Satan. But how is that my fault? Autumn looms, fine black cracks etched all over. Courtship systems have collapsed, seemingly overnight. Who knows whose hands or breath harbors the virus? Please, oh please, preserve me from people who

My Private Chernobyl

by Howie Good It’s the village where the kill switch was flicked and a malfunction occurred, where disaster originated, where a Socialist-realist mural of cunnilingus is brightly lit at night, where characters from cartoons and fairy tales (a farmer, a firefighter, a Soviet cosmonaut) have been abandoned. Everything else has been declared safe for visitors