Harold’s Purple Crayon


I live in a postmarked envelope,
     in a pair of socks,
     in a bull and matador fantasy,

     and when Ginger knocks on my door
     or caresses my rusty padlock,

     I come out of whatever I’m in,
     and no matter where we venture

     it’s as if the periodic table of elements
     has magically doubled, sometimes tripled.

It’s weird how a piece of paper with enough little boxes
     can contain the world.

No one voted on this current state of affairs,
     and I no longer trust my arms and legs

     or any other force of nature.

We walk around taking inventory
     of everything bigger than ourselves:

     literal giants, like André Roussimoff,
     whose pituitary mutations pump them up;

     literary giants, like Samuel Beckett,
     who drive about in their shiny black cars.

When she gently takes my earlobe between her teeth,
     I tower over myself,
     and end up on the list.

On days when Ginger is busy, night brings promise
     of her return.

Those with their own rooms
     explore their own bodies.

Those with dream homes
     draw moats for protection.

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About Glen Armstrong


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I write and teach and compose songs about people in Gorilla Suits. I miss Captain Beefheart, a fella who knew how to work his Trout suit.
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