by Rick Young | Mar 19, 2017 | Posthumous Additions, Story
(Note from the author’s son regarding this email excerpt: Sorry, Mom…)
And here’s my written piece of the week, deemed too inhospitable for the blog by those I’ve asked (ie your mom):
Top Ten Black Metal Band Names
___________________________
10. Purgatory Amos
9. Viagra Falls
8. Clock Shuckers
7. Hell Toupee
6. Cher Croppers
5. Ho Downers
4. Corrodeo
3. Beaver Damned
2. Princess Die Anthrax
1. Den Motherfuckers
Honorable Mention:
Cod Peace
Sausage Lynx
Gore Text
Four Hour Election
Nun Of The Above (NOTA)
by Rick Young | Mar 19, 2017 | Poem
The squares have all been rounded up,
a universal wrangle.
While life has lost a certain edge,
there remains the triangle.
The stars have all been taken down,
no mention of a spangle.
The artists are all up in arms.
Their aspirations dangle.
by Rick Young | Mar 18, 2017 | Poem
An arcade in the wilderness
has plunged our eagle into debt.
He thought he’d rule the wildlife pool.
But that was one bad bet.
His chips were down on common ground.
His talons lost their grip.
He flew too high and from grey sky
he spied a sinking ship.
With big bucks down on swim or drown,
he watched it all go under.
His realm was once our freedom’s wave.
But that’s all torn asunder.
by Rick Young | Mar 12, 2017 | Poem
Massive staircase to minimum space.
Shuttling between orbits of gum.
Sticking to the outside of the inside pages.
Words pink and puckered by habit.
There is no recourse to history’s racecourse.
The favorites will win. The scrappers will show.
The course is long and designed as unending.
The bending of rules is assumed.
There is nothing here within to survive the great without.
Breath is an adventure the living assume.
Nothing says the door cannot come down and end the play.
by Rick Young | Mar 3, 2017 | Poem
It’s time to bear the pall.
The pendulum is still.
The pit is split. The world is small.
The wind is cold and chill.
To deep holes in our sacred ground
are lowered profane veins.
The black blood flows through them unbound.
The earth will wear the stains.
The sounds of prayer hang in the air
and mix with tear gas fumes,
the body snatchers unaware
the curse their hoe exhumes.
