By Glen Armstrong


I’m afraid of poetry.

Who’s to say that those interesting.

Young people at the podium.

Won’t summon a demon.

Or make the whole room fall.

In love.

I have boots to reheel.

And no time to feel weird.

About daffodils and wars.

That my grandparents fought.


Words ought to inspire trust.

Not gambol about like Sea-Monkeys.

I don’t trust envelopes.

Full of powder.

Or the advertisements.

In old comic books.

Words ought to arrive as they are pictured.

Their world should resemble ours.

I simply don’t have time.

For these tiny little lives.



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 NorthwestConduit and Cloudbank.

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