by Rick Young | Dec 23, 2016 | Poem
Oh Santa, please bring me some nukes for Christmas.
Just leave some megatons beneath my tree.
My Russian pen pal asked you for the same thing.
And I don’t want him to have more than me.
The game we play is mutual destruction.
And I don’t know, dear Santa, if you’ve heard.
But this will always end up in a dead heat
if mass annihilation is assured.
So Santa, please bring me some nukes for Christmas.
I’ve been a little naughty, there’s no doubt.
But if you don’t deliver what I ask for,
I’ll buy your factory and phase you out.
The nuclear arms race has been neglected
for many years now, but must be resumed.
A wave of paranoia is expected.
An end of life scenario presumed.
Hey Santa, I’m not kidding on this wish list.
I’ve got a lot of generals prompting me.
The fate of this world hinges on your presents.
I’d better see some nukes under my tree.
by Rick Young | Dec 22, 2016 | Uncategorized
One mouth circles ominously,
betraying a vast inhalation.
Neck muscles stretch,
making waves in the ears.
It catches on across the room,
an episodic explosion of tangible strength,
a rippling shrug and atmospheric squeeze
that squints the eyes and pops the seized instant
into a different time;
that bank of eternity contagious yawning opens.
by Rick Young | Dec 21, 2016 | Poem
On Clough Road when I was a child
we had some maple trees.
In fall the leaves lay on the lawn,
in places to my knees.
My dad would rake this dried debris
into one giant pile.
My friends and I were then allowed
to play in it awhile.
We’d run and dive into this hive
for all the afternoon.
And when the kids were called away,
they’d always whine, "Too soon!"
I’d come back in the house all leafy,
notice Dad’s chagrin,
as Mom would tell him cheerfully,
"You’ll have to rake again."
by Rick Young | Dec 20, 2016 | Poem
Listening to John Cale,
thinking of Foghorn Leghorn.
Might have a fever.
Early morning skull swells,
looking to extricate eyeballs.
Sinuses screaming with graffiti,
yellow-green protests on germ warfare.
Hacking along to every song,
pillow wet with sweat, feet of ice.
Crazed thoughts magnify and pulse.
Scratches on the wall obtain meaning.
Pain can be a prod toward greatness,
sleeplessness the realm of a new clarity.
Push on, O virus-induced mystic.
Hurry now before the pills kick in.
by Rick Young | Dec 19, 2016 | Poem
I walked into black plastic arms and it felt like home.
Perhaps the hard green soldiers had taken this beach.
The beehives formed the outer edges of the strike zone.
Every day the new best song came out. No fear of death.
Just acceptance, and the next parameter of strangulation.
Tightropes were passe but necessary. They were the very very.
Feedback returned us to our cages, where we sniped at each mirage.
The jail was an igloo of coconuts, the sauces our own aspirations.
