Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
A NOTE TO MY LOVE It is not you Mr. death that I dread but the next sunrise with me watching. My teeth fall out on schedule. The gravestones are still handmade. The bones pile up quickly. The dead are Continue reading gary goude | more poems
SAD LIVES She told me her life was useless. “Of course” I said “All of them are.” She said she was sad had been all along. “That is a sign of tremendous intelligence” I replied taking a good hit off Continue reading gary goude | sad lives
JAKE’S DREAM Shit me and Jake we’d hit the clock at 6:AM Jake pulled the handle of three 30 year old Cumming’s drill presses and I’d set up the Gleasons making gears for the machines that kept Brandon 26 year Continue reading gary goude | jake's dream
significant poet is surrounded by a cluster of unyieldingly savage images which define both him and the age. Gary Goude is a compelling example. When I wrote the introduction to his first chapbook, A CRUSHED ROTTING DOG published by Fine Human Wreckage Press back in 1995, I was drawn to both the honesty and the violence of his work. The cover of DOG reveals a snapshot of Goude drinking from what looks like a bottle of vodka or possibly gin. He’s sitting on a white bench in front of a house window which sports the sign, Beware of Dog. Continue reading todd moore | gary goude and that crushed rotting dawg
