two poems, by Glen Armstrong

Antonyms for "Grit"

I reread your letter

by the light of a monitor

streaming the Coen brothers’

True Grit, and your methodical ways

of asking me to love you

make better sense now.

It was as fine a blending of texts

as my desktop has seen in quite some time.

Your world is no less fragile,

the window no less open.

The heart swings in the head’s noose.

I have considered the soles

of your shoes, and may I say

that the minimal wear impresses me

with its balance of worldly

and funerary qualities.

Artwork by Zeffrey, for Glen Armstrong's Antonyms for "Grit" 

Artwork by Zeffrey, for Glen Armstrong's Cineplex

Cineplex

The world explodes

as my body reclines.

The drink holder steadies a giant cup.

What gets projected

on the screen doesn’t matter much.

It’s all about the seats.

What sticks seems to be Pepsi.

Maybe the sequel

will clean things up a bit.

What hits the fan

doesn't smell that bad,

which should have been my first clue.

Pity the billionaire

who becomes a vengeful robot,

or sing along with his theme song,

the one we sang

when our own bodies could slip

through turnstiles

made of napalm and flags.

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Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His poems have appeared in Conduit, Poetry Northwest, and Another Chicago Magazine.