by Rick Young | Mar 29, 2020 | Obit
“Sarkafo” Gus was not a social distancing believer.
He’d prowl the street quite indiscreet, a ciggie butt retriever.
He’d kiss a baby, kiss a dog, if any were around.
He’d pick up pennies, anything that’s shiny, off the ground.
Cops would yell, “Hey! Dumb as hell! Get yourself back inside!”
He’d make like he had a home and find some place to hide.
For a week he’d roamed the road with nothing much to show.
An iron pipe, a can of tripe, a button-shaped rainbow.
His dream was that he owned the world, the last man left behind.
The rain came hard. The wind blew cold. The season was not kind.
So, when the radio call came, a dead man in the gutter,
the police knew that it must be Gus, the roving hobo nutter.
Four men in plastic suits arrived and threw him in a truck.
No obit, funeral, even prayers. Seemed no one gave a fuck.
by Rick Young | Mar 24, 2020 | Obit
In three weeks, we can work while we are sick.
Or so says mister bungle, our head prick.
Don’t worry ’bout the spread,
we don’t want business dead.
So let it kill the weak, like Mitt or Mick.
You’ll walk into a store that’s full of germs.
No coughing while inside. Those are the terms.
Your hairdresser, say, may look three shades of gray,
and croak, “we’ve got a special now on perms.”
Or maybe you need certain kinds of juices.
You jump onto a tram filled with papooses.
Then go in to a shop that’s filled with COVID pop,
and decorated, ceiling down, with nooses.
Oh look, the market’s surging back ahead.
They’re bidding on the bodies of the dead.
Before a carcass swells, they make quite fine hotels,
not fancy, just a bodybag-like bed.
And, back on top are gasoline and oil.
It’s best to burn a corpse and not to boil.
The theatre is back on, but don’t go to the john.
Afraid what’s in there might the third act spoil.
‘Normal’ life will brim with the excitement.
Down the road there will be an indictment.
We knew we should have hidden,
but did as we were bidden.
A barren planet was his mad entitlement.
by Rick Young | Mar 16, 2020 | Obit
Now we all shall die in homes entombed.
While lawns at Mar-a-Lago are still groomed.
Ivanka makes designer purses,
unavailable to nurses.
Those who’d save us do so at their risk.
This is even worse than stop-and-frisk.
Three weeks we should stay inside,
getting news of those who’ve died.
This is truly genuine March madness.
Only betting numbers are on sadness.
No more movies, sports or closing nights.
Older folks in toilet paper fights.
Families getting last gas fills,
ready to head to the hills.
Running market aisles like ferrets,
scrambling for lettuce, carrots.
Only parties are on Skype.
They would seem a desperate type.
In this home, the cats are kings.
They’ll eat us when we get wings.
by Rick Young | Mar 9, 2020 | Obit
Max von Sydow had to die so now we’re in a twist.
Our president’s possessed but we have no exorcist.
Now all the white house beds and lies will have to keep on spinning.
Trump’s got the hair of Linda Blair, but he’s much better sinning.
The bile that spews out of his mouth is not so green and gooey.
But it still stinks like backed-up sinks, vile water filled with hooey.
Who will now play chess with death since Max has lost his game?
Perhaps Sir Jared, whitest knight, will do it for his dame.
And so, The Seventh Seal begins anew in our plagued time.
An exorcist does not exist inside this house of crime.
by Rick Young | Dec 31, 2019 | Obit
Twenty twenty could be our last time
through the rotation;
“E Pluribus Whatever Crimes,”
the motto of the nation.
To think back how we stole this land
and built it up to rockets.
Our time is but a one-night stand,
small change in cosmos pockets.
And now we’re down to oligarchs
and monoliths in power.
The atmosphere is full of sparks
in gasoline’s last hour.
by Rick Young | Jun 20, 2019 | Obit
He drove a pencil through the webbing of his palm.
I needed lead, he said, and then applied a balm.
He poured a morning drink, something he called a buffer.
He had a firm belief an artist has to suffer.
His every action aimed at feeling precious pain.
He walked for hours in the night beneath the rain.
He carved designs upon his arms with razor blades,
and painted pictures on his chest in blood cascades.
He took to chasing pills with whiskey as a perk.
He called it research; it was all part of his work.
One day he met a guy he knew and bought a gun.
He put a bullet in the cylinder for fun.
Each morn he’d spin that thing and point it at his head.
He’d pull the trigger and then figure if he’s dead.
One day no answer came and that was when he knew.
He’d blown his chance, he’d left the dance.
His writing days were through.
