by Rick Young | Jan 29, 2021 | Poem
Dan collected face masks of dead goalies
and was known to steal some sneaks occasionally.
People had many fetishes in Beaverton.
His pal Andy had a vial of Blazer sweat
and a headband he claimed was Bill Walton’s.
A gang of the guys got together some nights
and traded wristbands, balls and batting gloves.
Someone would claim it was Tiger’s broken tee
or Kip Keino’s tossed cup in their hand,
but they had soiled the DNA. It was just a fantasy.
They were all disturbed by so-called Sosa pellets.
But the worst were plastic bags of spit-out chaw.
And someone said their dad had Mordecai Brown’s finger.
by Rick Young | Jan 29, 2021 | Posthumous Additions, Story
(Note from the author’s son: I found this seemingly unfinished draft and felt compelled to publish it – with the date he last edited it.)
Danny collected the face masks of dead goalies
and was known
by Rick Young | Jan 20, 2021 | Poem
Our sinking ship has made it back to shore.
With Ahab gone, things just might be o.k.
Get all his seasick sailors off the floor.
And look forward to sail another day.
The white whale we’ve been chasing for four years
today submerged and migrated down south.
He’d breached the waters of our deepest fears
with lies that spilled like krill out of his mouth.
But now the hunt for power has been ended,
the waters that surround us calm and clear.
The boat and mast successfully defended,
we’d like to think a time of peace is near.
by Rick Young | Jan 20, 2021 | Poem
He’s still got his mitts on the nuclear codes until noon.
He’s up in the air like the devil may care, the buffoon.
If he sends the command to a nuclear sub,
D.C. just disappears in the bay, glub, glub, glub.
In this next two hours, he could have his say,
and possibly blow all the blue states away.
He said he’ll be back, perhaps in a new form.
His last campaign could well be called “U.S. Storm.”
There won’t be a sigh of relief until he
is disarmed and deposited in history.
As long as he still has his hands on the button,
we’re all meat to him, fried chicken and mutton.
by Rick Young | Jan 19, 2021 | Poem
Four hundred thousand Covid dead.
And DT’s packing up instead.
He doesn’t give a fuck for suckers out of luck,
as long as he winds up, somehow, ahead.
Tomorrow he will fly his family south
to be his party’s claws, if not its mouth;
where he can yell, “You’re fired!” to elderly retired
in the sunny land where marks are routh.
He still won’t admit ‘Sleepy’ took the wheel.
In his trapped mind, election was a steal.
He is the rightful ruler, and nothing could be crueler
than claiming his landslide was not for real.
He’s got four years to shape himself anew,
to get back at those reds who turned him blue.
With Georgia on his mind, his rage will make him blind.
He’ll fume and gloom in failed dictator stew.
He’ll gather at his side remaining goons,
the kinds of folk who’d steal the White House spoons.
May all his future days be festooned with sting rays.
And may he not be seen for many moons.
