23.8.21

Three Poems by Glen Armstrong

Antonyms for “Red Light”

 

 

I’ve been to the lowlands

and gotten high on paint fumes.

 

I’ve been part of a crew

that was part of the solution

 

and a part of one 

that was part of the problem.

 

A red light appears.

It’s so beautiful that it stops

 

traffic in the streets.

It reminds me that I’ve seen ice 

 

in a glass change colors

while my children studied the imprints

 

that their feet made

in wet sand.

 

I’ve been the hammer and the nail

and the owner of a hardware store,

 

straightening the sample

swatches of paint.

 

 

 

 

 

Chronic Town #2

 

 

Unexpected hands.

I make excuses.

 

I listen to jazz.

And try to ignite a flag.

 

The children make X-Men.

From paper and yearn.

 

For longer yarn.

Though they have no formal training.

 

In yearning.

Or making.

 

Excuses.

I am losing my grip.

 

 

 

 

 

from The Collected Poems of Jet Screamer

 

 

     XVII.

 

Go deeper into the eep.

            Feel the hinges of your jaw

            pull back as if performing

            the Buddha’s secret smile.

 

Breathe in.

            Breathe out.

                        Ready lips

 

            for the divine’s invisible,

            perfectly curved ass.

 

The puh is not a stutter

            but a kiss.

 

You still can’t discern 

            the song’s secret meaning?

 

            Imagine the vastness of space.

            Turn your mouth into a boomerang.

 

 

            XLI. 

 

A silver rocket divides the reddened sky.

 

 

            XCVI.

 

She wrote that I was stupid

            in the manner of a birthday cake.

 

            Sexual like a congenital stutter. 

 

            As American as a half-eaten sandwich.

 

            A reminder that “culture,

            like all modern phenomena, 

 

            turns mean,

            eats its young, 

 

            then canonizes 

            any youth who manage an escape.”

 

I was an annoying buzz 

            near the decorative arts.

 

            The death of content.

 

            Irony for dummies.

 

 

            CIV.

 

They still ask about Judy

            as if I ever understood

            that white-haired tigress.

 

They still ask to see the scars.

 

Even at my age, they still want to see

            me back on stage

            staring down the darkness

            beyond the spotlight,

 

            each sequin like a photonegative

            of bone marrow.

 

I seriously don’t remember

            which of the Way-Outs

            introduced me to the needle,

 

            which of the four winds ripped

 

            through my topcoat

            to nest between my fingers.

 

I signal the bartender 

            to make it a double.

 

Such is my distrust of the voice

            that made me famous.

 

I’ll never be able to tell

            my biographers

            all I’ve lost

            through the goalposts 

 

            of that ancient gesture 

            for victory.

 

 

            CLVIII.

 

A young couple dances

            to “Eep Opp Ork.”

 

It’s as miraculous 

            that they found this old tune

            on the jukebox

 

            as it is that they found

            true love, however fleeting.

 

Ice whiskey whiskey,

            says the bartender.

 

Come fly with me.

            Come watch the trumpeter swan.

 

            Leave Earth and constellate,

                        says the young man dancing. 

 

Whiskey whiskey whiskey,

            says the young woman 

            in his arms.

 

On another planet

            a purple monk beats a drum 

              to keep the angel of death

            distracted.

 

 

 

Glen Armstrong