Chronic Town #6Symphony and devilry. We continue fighting in heels. I wrap my head. Around the idea of your head. Last summer’s slow. Children form a circle. Holding hands. A narrow bandwidth can be. Lovely and fragile. Or a perceived deficit. A fear of being left. Without. Antonyms for “Geology”1. I remember each rock. The rabbit hops. This all goes down hill pretty fast, but it’s not a disaster. It’s more like a soapbox derby car. 2. I remember the time Yōsuke Yamashita burned a piano on stage. It was as if he had turned his back on the notion of linear time. It was as if his core belief that there is no who cares about us had been confirmed. Even the small boy who loved the way his rocks hit a stop sign had to reconsider joy and its leporine twitch. House of India #33The tongue lives in a cave. In a House. In a mystery. It jumps that weird white fence as it crawls under the same. Open your mouth. It can sound like a bird or a trombone. If all this wine were in the bottle, there would be no songs about it. It would taste like silence. It would taste like a cat. If the waitress, disguised as a waitress yet again, arrives with my spicy stew, I will know that it is her. I will wonder. I will have my doubts. It can sound like a cat or a waitress. It can sound like a frog or a silver coin settling to the floor. If some of the wine were in my mouth, the songs might spill forth ugly and loud. Each of her arms is a miracle. Each of her hands holds a planet. If I were to pour some on the floor for the remembered dead, I would be asked to leave the House of India. Perhaps. Forever. Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. He has three current books of poems: Invisible Histories, The New Vaudeville, and Midsummer.
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