By Howie Good
The captain general of shadows appears
unexpectedly at my door, announcing we were children together, licked by the
same black dog. When I start to object, my mouth fills with sharp bits of
debris. Depending on where you’re standing, you might mistake the flicker of pained
astonishment blurring my features for a flicker of recognition. I shouldn’t
compare, but Van Gogh also had most of his teeth pulled. Blood provided the
only splash of color.
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