top of page


Glen Armstrong






Golden Age #2

The morning’s usual haze

was sometimes


I would see the fleshy blur

hurry to the pond,

a white erasure

rubbing out a misty world,

her long black hair and shockingly

short black


like animals she had trained

to keep pace

with her naked body

as it dashed

back and forth.

Oh, glint that duels blink

in the morning’s soft focus.

Oh, light like a hollow organ


Under cover of unformed


she was gathering

water lilies

and fat-legged frogs

for breakfast.

Side by Side

I am scrolling along.

Trying to get to my favorite song’s.

Lyrics and download.

You are in another room.

Eyes fixed on another screen.

The purple mountain’s majesty.

Green river’s bullfrogs.

Yellow moon’s railroad tracks.

All lead back to some new beginning.

Before they end.

I no longer feel elemental.

And do not remove my shirt.

At the beach where sea tomato.

Jellyfish are dying en masse.

And in public.

After living such secret lives.

I’m not so sure this afternoon.

That I am better off without a wife.

Some children want to kick the beached.

Jellyfish but they are still poisonous.

Bruegel Bruegel #2

Under the weather,

there’s a broomstick.

Under the broomstick,

there’s a couple

who have read the great love

stories and underlined

the saucy parts.

The apple vender caught them

fucking under his cart.

It was starting to rain.

The little trenches

between ecstasy and pain

were filling with water

that wasn’t fit for man

but seemed to refresh

the long-eared donkey.

Year of the Sea Monkey XCII

Finally, my sweetheart comes

out to address the crowd

with the police megaphone

that makes her voice loud

enough but filters out

all of its warmth.

She says that they’ve managed

an excellent chant.

She is thrilled that they want her.

There will be rooftop concerts

by local rock and roll bands

every third Friday

all summer long,

and a special surprise

that she can’t reveal until

the details are worked out.

Our days are about expansion

and having enough water

for any task.

At night, we shrink a bit

and limit our use of electronics.

About the Poet

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, Sonic Boom and Queen Mob’s Teahouse.

logo erothanatos
bottom of page