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.
I am never satisfied
with the
temperature.
Loose talk
around the
watercooler
has left
me blue but clear-
headed
like a
robot’s peek-a-boo
skull.
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 Histories, The New Vaudeville, and Midsummer. His work has appeared in The Black Light Engine Room, Impspired, and Guts Publishing’s new collection, Sending Nudes.
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