by Rick Young | Dec 3, 2017 | Poem
We think of your spurious garages
robed in the feeble edges of flat tire lungs
your oil cans like robot teats
for monkey wrenches howling around the ominous batteries
sublimated spark plugs and anxious metal pedals.
We think of your lucite panels
your millions of drops of what color is that paint
your manic neon tubes and delicate sockets
plagued with the symptoms of exhaust
all gray-toothed and punk around the nuclei.
We think of your exposed hollows
your pop and jingling clothesline threads of lifepatch
humming ballads on everlasting and conclusion
to your rejected driveways
the impregnable axons of a constricted vision.
by Rick Young | Dec 3, 2017 | Poem
You know we are not alone.
Out the window there’s a drone.
Insect nose against the glass,
photographing your bare ass.
Drone, I curse your every blade.
What gives you rights to invade?
Now from sea to shining sea
there’s no chance for privacy.
Keep your shade down, curtain drawn.
One just landed on the lawn.
Just how long before this hobby
intertwines with the gun lobby?
Geeks get that transcendent thrill,
scoring points with each new kill.
A drone is like a robot pet.
Whirled, you ain’t seen nothing yet.
by Rick Young | Dec 2, 2017 | Poem
A snake charmer,
whose room looks like a pharmaceutical junkyard,
is memorizing religion on an atrophied wireless.
"Keep pledging that speck of hatred to tomorrow,"
he repeats, while stabbing himself with a number
three pencil. Last night, it seems, he tied his friends
together by the tail and painted lurid designs
upon his leatherette sofa with India ink.
He takes this as an intense subliminal desire
to return to his homeland, but is afraid
the people of Ohio will snicker at his tattoo
unless he learns more about god.
by Rick Young | Dec 2, 2017 | Poem
There’s no refuge any more
unless your home’s a tower.
The elite just won the war.
Rich folks have all the power.
Corporate tax gifts passed the floor.
Medicare may be no more.
Billionaires who own estates
dance now behind golden gates.
They’ll drill in the arctic, too;
soon be eating caribou.
Middle class will take the hit.
Merry Christmas. Eat some shit.
Deficit receives a load
youth will pay for down the road.
Say goodbye to wildlife parks.
Load endangered onto arks.
Country can’t be great again
when the wealthy always win.
Ruling classes don’t play fair.
Word out to the poor: Beware.
by Rick Young | Dec 1, 2017 | Poem
Comes again the time of plastic wreaths upon the door,
golden popcorn bubbles oozing caramel on the floor.
Cousin Ed, supposed dead, has stopped by for some cheer.
Here’s a shop where if you stop the people call you ‘dear.’
There they’ve hung a bearded man outside the bullet store.
In the hallway, mottled elves complain their feet are sore.
On the sidewalk, Santa Claws just hit you with his bell.
Everyone is merry: "Watch your feet there!" "Go to hell !"
Oh, it makes you want to heave on someone’s blinking tree,
boil a skunk for dinner, cast your cash into the sea.
Wait! Is that a wise man underneath the distant star?
No, it’s just some guy who wants to sell you a used car.
