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Censor Bars. by Glen Armstrong

It was my job to gather and launder
the lengths of black tape.

I would dream each night of a city
where sexy mummies toiled

to bring something forth
from beyond the fourth dimension.

I would wake up scared and aroused.
“’Lice’ is singular, ‘louse’ is plural,”

an eerie voice trailed off.
It was a lousy way to make a living.

For a while I dated a fluffer
who worked in pornographic films.

Like pitchers playing
for different teams,

we shared an understanding.
We understood how being seen

and not being seen collapsed
into each other at the end of the day.

Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three new chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit and Cloudbank.