by Rick Young | Oct 9, 2017 | Poem
Tiny blue crystals were everywhere:
in the sand, on the rug, even in the tub,
minute, translucent, thin as fingernails.
We thought that we should clean up.
But this was not our fault.
There were too many, and increasingly
more the more you looked.
And they moved, sliding away from touch,
even popping airward like dandelion puffs.
They formed indecipherable patterns
on the walls; and at the mere thought
of vacuum, broom or mop, they multiplied.
It quickly turned from fun to frightening.
When we went to the authorities,
they said we’d trespassed in a forbidden zone,
but would not be prosecuted if we left quickly
and forgot what we had seen. Tell anyone,
and you will be forever haunted, they said.
Just go now, they warned, And burn your clothes.
by Rick Young | Oct 6, 2017 | Poem
I suspect birds
are spelling out signs,
would we have the time
to connect them.
Thousands of windshields
pointed toward the sun
cannot blind the cloud god.
And the ants only steal
as a favor.
We should walk a foot
in their hole.
Not that neon
is the curse of gasses,
but spare me
from your fast food wars.
All these screaming
cell phones in the wind
make me long
for the company of rocks.
by Rick Young | Oct 5, 2017 | Poem
He falls down a lot. But that’s cool.
Just smokes a cigarette on the ground
and mumbles something existential.
He’s got a nickel- plated whiskey flask.
But he can’t find it. Must be in the pocket
of an old zoot suit, somewhere.
He’d play his horn, except his teeth fall out.
He’d snap his fingers, but he broke his thumb.
The broken hipster was hot back in his day.
But now he just seems dumb.
by Rick Young | Oct 4, 2017 | Poem
My alter ego is in prison.
He acts out more than I.
In his early days of crime,
he’d wink as I stood by.
But things got really out of hand.
He thrived on doing harm.
Bad moods could lead to robbery,
bad dates, a broken arm.
And if it rained on my parade,
he’d go off on a spree.
It got so bad that even dreams
created jeopardy.
I rest a whole lot easier
since he is behind bars.
But sometimes I still feel his pain
at night, despite the stars.
by Rick Young | Oct 3, 2017 | Poem
I saw you crossing lanes
while on the whipped cream line.
Such a bold infraction
often brings a healthy fine.
Later in the forest
I spied you shooting mousse.
Then I realized your problem:
sugar junkie on the loose.
I certainly can sympathize.
You see, I am the fellow
who long ago stooped low enough
to snort a box of Jello.
So I could be your sugar king,
and you my sugar queen.
We’d rule the streets.
We’d eat dot sheets.
Look out on Halloween!
by Rick Young | Oct 2, 2017 | Poem
My skeleton’s skin has taken me in;
it’s told me lies, in front of my eyes.
It’s shaped my days in a thousand ways.
It’s helped me out, and without a doubt
I wouldn’t be here; it’s made that clear,
if I didn’t play ball. God forgive us all.
There’s a little white room where we
seal our doom. There’s a big black door
labeled "nevermore." We can step inside.
They’ll say that we died. And our thoughts
compiled will be stripped and filed
into reference books for both spies and crooks.
And our history will be lost at sea. Amen.
