
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 recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit and Cream City Review.
Since you went away,
the pigeons have turned mean.
They must remember your white elephant
hat as their pigeon god
and realize that you and your molting
head wear have sanctioned chaos.
Pecking at the names of famous men,
they tear my newspaper.
Pecking at each other,
they are dying young,
and this has been the way of it
since you went away.
The printed word is a target.
The stories are all about you.
The world should smell of glue,
but it smells of world,
and it gets all swirly.
Surely, the world is not
predictable in the manner of genre
fiction or a scientific
experiment for students
learning method
and avoiding mystery.
I thought by now that my friends and I
would have discovered gold,
would have uncovered
skeletons bent into meaningful
activities, pursuing pleasure
in each other and the ancient
predecessor to ice hockey.