Glen Armstrong
Among the Forgetters #24 Nothing disappears at the bottomof the stairs or along the horizon,on the moon or in the basement of a Chineserestaurant.The threshold for having gone away gets setback andback until we worry a little less,until we get distracted. The inability of wet paper to hold a thoughtis another example. Nothing speaks of false confidence betterthan a fat fountain penmonogrammed in gold. An old woman sitsnear her open window,thinking how the whites of little Orphan Annie’s eyes might signal the gunmanmuch sooner than traditional whites taken up by iris and pupil. The Bedside Book of Gravity I imagined Haley’s Cometand a million other decaying orbits drawing closer. The lion’s share of air in my lungswent running backto its lion. I intended to commit myself to the world and everything in it. Including you. Including piano lessons. There was sheet music with your name in the title. But the sky won’t fit in a song. Young and alone on a long road, I pressed on toward Bonnaroo. I imagined Howling Wolf being fittedfor a hand-tailored suit, the other musiciansgathering to watch. Thus was the bigman’s gravity. Star Wars (Simulacrum and Restoration) I want to give back to the mannequinsome kind of kindness, some kind of AnakinSkywalker that isn’t made of plasticor a child’s plastic delivery of plasticlines. Let potential kindness engenderand arouse and complicate.I do not belong to an ancient race.A brown shoe is not necessarilya decision. Glen Armstrong edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.)