POSER by Glenn Armstrong

When I broke a nude reclining pose, and took a

cigarette break on the roof, the instructor outlined 

the vacant space with masking tape so it looked like 

a crime scene. My robe was worn ceremoniously, 

not for the cold. I picked up the pose accurately

again after my smoke; flesh, muscle, and bone covered

nicotine-stained lungs. My bare body became an 

inanimate object in front of the class, and 

artists stood inches from me as if I had turned  

into brass or marble. Afterwards, I noticed some  

sculptors had neglected to provide my likenesses

with clay penises, but left smooth groins instead like 

those found on ‘70s Hulk action figures with remov-

able clothes. (I used to blow up my plastic 

superheroes with firecrackers inserted 

into their arm and leg joints, which explains a lot.) 

But why did TV Hulk’s shredded clothes actually 

get bigger when he expanded? How did his pants 

and boxer shorts not split and fall off? Anyway, 

although I posed for the money, it helped would-be 

artists edge a little closer to 15-minute fame.

Glenn Armstrong has been a journalist, art model, and monk. His poetry has appeared in The Beatnik Cowboy and other publications. He lives in San Diego.