Volume 29, Number 3

Hot Rod Lincoln

They say that when the wind blows, Abraham Lincoln is driving at midnight through the thirteen original colonies, his brains leaking from the bullet hole at the base of his skull. We’re a nation of tired schemers. You can see, if you look closely, that the sky is stained and peeling. Those aren’t clouds flying over us, but angels with tiny hands and a malevolent, constipated expression on their faces. Meanwhile, the ground where the children of deportees are buried emits spiky beams of yellow light. I should shake in fear. I should rush into the flames. Instead, I just go, “Oh, wow.”

—Howie Good