Sunday, 24 January 2021

Three New Poems by Glen Armstrong


Green Contact Lenses


Obscure the soul.

The wind scatters


popcorn for pigeons that cannot

process its buttery oil.


They beg for more!


I go to the movies

and root for whichever monster reminds me


the most of Frankenstein.


I encourage the throwing

of shoes.


I encourage the slow drip

that parcels our disaster.



Year of the Sea Monkey CLXXI


She will be there too.

We will ride the sort of train

that the banjo players


sing about.

Nothing will startle us.

The loud noises will soften


and the train will pull

back into its song

as if its stations are choruses.


Or maybe not.

Today, we’re a little bit closer.

We butter toasted salt


rising bread and listen

to the radio.

My sweetheart throws out


the idea that each station

is like its own invisible

planet as if she’s throwing


out the first pitch,

but spring and a new season

are far off in the future.



 The Color of Water


I am never satisfied

with the temperature.


Loose talk

around the watercooler


has left me blue but clear-



like a robot’s peek-a-boo



I think of my own skull,

or my thinking


box, as I like to call it,

as a swimming pool


for naughty frogs and a mermaid

who batter-


fries their legs.


Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three current books of poems: Invisible HistoriesThe New Vaudeville, and Midsummer. His work has appeared in The Black Light Engine RoomImpspired, and Guts Publishing’s new collection, Sending Nudes.

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