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-

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.