The World’s Largest Retail Owl
may have started
as a bowling alley.
May have lost its B
in the riots.
May have driven mother
and father mouse
underground.
The rest of us stand
in line to buy
the owl’s packaged goo,
the stuff that separates us
from our bones.
The Bedside Book of Foreign Accents
With my name,
you pollinated flowers.
With my name you said, “Bend down.”
At any moment some impulsive
use of words could have driven
us under ground:
Je veux la fille avec les plus haute cheveux.
So you wrote my name in the belly
of an origami horse.
Sold my name and likeness
to a Scandinavian sperm bank.
Then bought it back
at double the price.
I had gained weight
and symbolically fathered millions.
It was easier to get things done
when I smiled down from above.
With my name, you teased your hair
and carried a package from store to store.
When you pronounced my name,
your accent slowed it down
and opened it up.
Had I been the floor detective,
I would have let you
get away with murder.
Watching TV Half-Asleep
The end of days and those
who shuffle though it
burn on dishwater.
The June bug and June
bride drink
from the same sink.
They interrupt the same
chase scene:
The private investigator
would give his life
for spotless spoons.
On the other side
of the glass, hearts beat,
modesty’s veil lifts,
bodies stutter and vestigial
tails and wings need
to be seen.
Or at least believed.
Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He also edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters.
