by Rick Young | Nov 28, 2013 | Poem
I’m going to buy some chickens
down in Chinatown.
On Kneeland Street, you hear them bleat,
their entrails on the ground.
They’re disemboweled daily.
The pigeons have a feast.
It seems an end, alas, my friend,
too foul for even beast.
But people need their chicken,
like people need their bread.
When I buy two, old Mister Woo
says, "With or without head?"
He’ll chop those heads off for you,
but I still take them home.
I decorate faux reprobate,
in early chickendome.
by Rick Young | Nov 27, 2013 | Poem
We love your work.
But it hurts our eyes.
Though the meaning is clear,
all the words are fuzzy.
It starts out on a high note
but never ends.
Though it’s perfect for this time,
this is not the place.
We suggest you send it elsewhere.
But don’t mention our name.
You are an excellent typist.
We recommend rearranging keys.
by Rick Young | Nov 26, 2013 | Poem
The cows have overrun the field, making the carrots juice.
A band of gypsies in the trees have cut the apples loose.
And morning finds the farmer in the dirt down on his knees.
He’s trying to find the culprit who has killed his precious peas.
Bleeding agriculture comes as something of a shock.
It is the leading reason all the farms are now in hock.
There’s your major bleeders like the grape and the tomato.
Then there’s those that scar to death like turnips or potato.
It’s no wonder Cesar Chavez leapt the leap eternal,
watching corn, battered and torn, surrender its last kernel.
by Rick Young | Nov 25, 2013 | Poem
I’ve never seen so many big red noses.
Or people stepping on each other’s feet.
The air smells of face paint and rubber hoses.
It seems there’s naught but bozos on the street.
And as the rally cries ascend to laughter,
while here and there is tossed a custard pie,
one wonders if there’s clowns in the hereafter.
Is heaven just a circus in the sky?
by Rick Young | Nov 24, 2013 | Poem
We met in the lower register.
My wings set her hair on fire.
We agreed upon a moon
and put it in writing.
The heavy type was used
to build our dream house.
A first floor of capital letters.
In those days we were moveable.
We sent keys to our friends
and ribbon to our enemies.
But the roof was paper thin.
Soon we were infested with lies.
Our moon appeared
in other words,
leaving us lightless and brittle.
My wings and her hair disappeared.
Our home filled up
with high-pitched screams.
And at night
we prayed for erasure.
