There is only me contrasted with everyone
and everything else. I don’t go to Scottish
games and log toss. I identify as being
separate. That includes so-called connectivity
and your feelings. Not to be a cad,
just unto myself. We’re alone beyond
the illusion: bawling, sour-faced newborns
seeking to hide before being classified,
stamped, and turned loose as statistics.
Glenn Armstrong enjoys reading old pulp fiction and piloting the way back machine. The result is sometimes poetry. His work has appeared in The Beatnik Cowboy and The Rye Whiskey Review, among others. He lives in San Diego.
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