by Rick Young | Mar 2, 2019 | Poem, Posthumous Additions
There’s a lot to be saved if for drinking supper;
cycle all those liquids as if you’re human scupper.
Give me one more beer, dear bartender.
I’m still a few away from being on a bender.
When I start to ask for whiskey, that’s a sign I’m getting frisky,
and it’s best if you return me to sender.
I would live in a bar and become a drunk star.
I would detail my antics on line.
I’d abandon my house and then total my car.
Every night I’d mix whiskey with wine.
There’s a lot to be saved by drinking supper;
cycle them damn liquids around like a human scupper.
A man might dedicate his life to alcohol.
And his friends might tell him that he’s headed for a fall.
But what’s the sense of living your life up against the wall?
The great god of fermentation has provided me my call.
I am loved in liquor stores and cabarets.
My life is interrupted frequently by short jail stays.
I often see the world as nothing but a bottle maze.
But I’m much to old to change my sippin’ ways.
There’s a lot to be said for drinking supper;
run them liquids in and out just like a human scupper.
by Rick Young | Mar 2, 2019 | Posthumous Additions, Song
It was just the saddest thing I’d heard.
Blue Monday’s sun was eaten by a bird.
It took off to the moon.
That light was gone too soon.
And now the dark’s just waiting for the word.
More bad news came the next day as I feared.
Ruby Tuesday up and disappeared.
Her dreams had all gone wrong.
She strangled in the song.
And then the restaurant: now that was weird.
Now there’s a weakness in the middle of the week,
a wrongness that wrecks words and makes it hard to speak.
And then the weekend comes, a three-day weirdness tweak.
But then it starts again, the bird with sun in beak.
///////oy couldn’t find a Wednesday connect except morning comin down /// if you can throw in WThF verses, then the last 4 lines could be chorus in this spot and at the end . ////// . we could have false names for writing credits, like Jah&Pa .
Stay tuned.
by Rick Young | Feb 14, 2019 | Poem, Posthumous Additions
I’m not a man of grace. In fact, I can be mean.
I don’t respect the president, the papacy or queen.
There is only one thing that I love, and this is true.
There’s one face on my totem, dear, and that belongs to you.
I drink too much and sleep all day, then party through the night.
I don’t help to support the left although I hate the right.
I don’t take part in races ’cause I always throw a shoe.
My heart’s a silver locket and the face inside is you.
The road not taken’s long behind and up ahead’s a wall.
My life is in its winter phase. I’m ready for the fall.
I’ll climb that ladder in the sky up to the castle blue.
The one face on the parapet I’m looking for is you.
I’m a cold brother trucker never got off that dirt road.
I’ve thrown aside some friends, it’s true, to lighten up my load.
But when I break out of the cage, escape the human zoo,
my sidekick on the trip to come eternally is you.
by Rick Young | Feb 1, 2019 | Poem, Posthumous Additions
An amateur found a profound truth
Buried inside a riddle
Barking from a distant field
Chills down the spine
From a newborn fear
Parking in front of
An elevator door
Constraination felt
by Rick Young | Nov 9, 2018 | Poetry, Posthumous Additions
This guy was Sessions’ Chief of Staff.
His resume could make one laugh.
He lost a couple statewide runs.
But he works out and has big guns.
He’s almost fifty, from Des Moines,
loved by guys who praise their groin.
He played football for the Hawkeyes
but lost in Rose Bowl game.
He coached Rick Perry’s POTUS run,
which crashed and burned, oh shame.
He jumped into the business world
with both his size twelve feet,
investing first in trailers,
then in day care, then concrete.
He got involved in marketing
but fraud charge shut that down.
So he became a talking head,
conservative news clown.
He gained Drumpf’s keen attention
dismissing all his crimes.
He thought he’d get a judgeship
and climb back to good times.
But his gestapo manner
and posture as good cop,
shot him up the justice arm
and landed him on top.
So now Attorney General’s
just another name for goon.
These con man grifters come and go.
Let’s hope this one’s gone soon.
by Rick Young | May 30, 2018 | Poem, Posthumous Additions
A Frank Blair (1915) hologram
bleakly announces the death of Sun Ra (’93).
So opens the new Howard Hawks (1896) film,
a bizarre new take on the murder of Joan of Arc in 1431,
starring Keir Dullea (1936) and Michael J. Pollard (1936)
as a conjoined-twins version of the heroine, voiced by Mel Blanc (1908),
whose last vision is of Jimi Hendrix at Berkeley (1970),
the great lefty axeman portrayed by Stepin Fetchit (1892)
in a marvel of editing. An uncredited walk on by Clint Walker (1927)
as Turk Lown (1924) relieves tension and leads to the final gasp
as Gayle Sayers (1943) and Lydell Mitchell (1949) arise from the pyre
as Joan’s conjoined souls and are transplanted into the bodies of
Mike Sadek (1946) and Mike LaCoss (1956) as life’s eternal battery.
Somewhere in the mix, Max Carey dies (’76).
He is played, with lifelike precision, by John Felske (1942).
Joan’s song vocals by Idina Menzel (1971).
“Hymn To Sun Ra” by Ceelo Green (1974).
The movie is dedicated to the memory of Claude Pepper (d. ’89).
