Richard C. Armstrong III

Contributions:

floor beers and bed rice

floor beers 2
 
Whatever stupidly infinite essence
of spice-powder
spilt over,
 
that’s how much power
is pumped through
the battery charger—
 
your fingers
in my shoulder,
 
your elbows and body-weight
negating tension,
 
loosening
fascial adhesions…
 
Release—
a temporal heaven,
 
a passing tissue state
undone by the passage of time.
 
Here,
I am the rung-out restoration
of the body before it becomes soul.
 
The perpetual accuracy of understanding
is a concept not lost
on the intelligence of your skin.
 
There are the theories—the pre-cog
knowledge of “touchable”
before an actual touch,
 
the space before
the placing of your hand
upon mine,
 
before the physical IQ
of the species supersedes
the wisdom
 
of one body
pressed
against another.
 
There is
the pressure of process, maturation—
 
stoppage impossible as the longevity
of our current closeness.
 
There is the threat
of something spiritual—God,
I guess,
 
a whisper from the gaps
between muscle fibers.
 
“Call your pain
by name,” you say.
 
“Name,” I say.
“Name.”
 

NOTHING, LORD, MORE THAN

Nothing, Lord, More Than: poem cover
 
this prayer, Lord,
I have nothing
 
Lord, give me,
this prayer for
 
nothing, Lord
more than
 
I have, Lord
I have what
 
I need, Lord,
I need,
 
Lord, I need.
I need.

DEEP SEA STUDY

deep-sea-study
 
According to a survey conducted by fartcloud.com,
one in four individuals who attempt to ignite there own flatulence
will, in the next year, die horribly in a boating accident of some kind.
 
And it really is terrible to think about,
                                                             I mean,
the whole world up in flames
and you not able to be there because you’re thirty miles out to sea and barely conscious,
boom-bashed by a sloppy jive-ho,
the crook of your elbow slowly
slipping from a half-rotten life-ring
until eventually you start to feel the cashmere smoothness of seawater
washing over you, warmer… warmer… warmer…
then the inevitable strokes of sandpaper on your soaked skin
as the whaler sharks begin to circle…
 
Now, it’s not only that it’s such a monumental thing
to wrap your mind around,
the odds against our living forever:
 
It’s just,
                there’s the children to consider.
 
Not to mention starvation
 
amongst the spider crabs.

HIDE IS IN MANHATTAN BUT SEEK’S THREE PLAINS AWAY

hide-and-seek
 
 
I am a lone
leaf in a New
England yard-pile 
watching turnstiles
turn
for miles         
…watching jets hold
holding patterns
out and over  
Newark ←….→ New Hampshire
Newark ←….→ New Hampshire 
…watching
up one way and down the next 
as my legs turned china
into midtown…. 
My proverbial can is filled with asphalt and rebar.
No sense trying to kick it over.
You must come and find me…find
me here, if you can, where 
fast jaguars blur into swamp-brush alleyways: I’ll be
hidden 
and glamorous as a frightened jungle bird.