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.