Collagist

by Howie Good

The Grand Canal from Panama to France was open again. Beware the pickpockets of Lisbon! “Spell that,” the man on the phone said. My head bobbed about like a balloon on a string. “E,” I started, “as in exoskeleton” when I suddenly felt weirdly detached. The night rolled in. I was breathing like I had scarred lungs. Does good equal saintly? I asked myself. There was once a painter who loved paint so much that he drank a jar of it. It’s called the “path of totality” despite the treachery of words. One drew a knife and shot him.

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