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Showing posts from September, 2017

Glen Armstrong

The Bedside Book of Cryptids     I was rehearsing what I would say.             I had lined up some cocktail toothpicks. It was one of those days that makes us             believe in Bigfoot,             the sky more shadow             than a maker of shadows. We all need a little downtime.             To be that which we’ve marked             our trails by.             To speak like a Viking.             To smolder. Most smoke and all spoken word             is imaginary, anyhow. All but a few scraps of Viking bone             are likewise, imagined. The more I invented what to say,             the darker the sky grew.             The fewer my options. The landscape and my desk and the best loved             stories of lovers everywhere             were laid out before me.             The sharpened sticks love smuggles             across the border all seemed             highly unlikely. Glen Armstrong edi