of secret, fibrous straps, their most intimate green –
I sat on a bench imagining my malt liquor bottle
renewing itself: one long and foamy leg
ready kick me in the throat.
Requiem for the Fiji Mermaid
The fish-thing in formaldehyde opens its eyes.
The little zombie hungers for brains
but makes due with thoughts.
Destined to entertain us,
she no longer sings or drinks tea from a cup
scaled down to the size of a walnut shell.
But steeped in Hell’s tiny spotlight, she can’t help but command our attention.
All summer long, we would race Frankensteins. The streets would fill with the shuffling dead and beautiful flag girls. The rich kids could hire mad geniuses, assuring them the biggest, fastest Frankensteins. Some covered their Frankensteins with chrome and otherworldly paint. Those remained chained to their trailers and won trophies just by sparkling. Pre-race, the fellas and I would circle up to display what we had. Mine was always the ugliest, but the girls didn't seem to mind.
Bio: 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 Northwest, Conduit and Cloudbank.