Photo by J. R. Korpa
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Unfunny Valentine Howie Good My heart is apocalyptically yours, a grand piano burning on a lonely stretch of beach, a kingdom composed of tiny but belligerent principalities, an SOS sent from deep space. It’s a story told in jump cuts and flashbacks, the flashbacks arranged in no particular order. It’s a disinterred memory of familial crimes. It’s the 15 billion trees a year felled to make toilet paper. It’s a mile-high tower of old crumbly animal hides. It’s a forgery of the famous painting of lovers flying through the sky locked in an embrace. It’s a scar shaped like a tulip about to bloom. |
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