by Rick Young | Apr 20, 2017 | Poem
Our military found a way to make cows fly.
Now, every time they take a shit, some folks might die.
A cow flop dropped from fifty feet up might not matter.
But from half a mile the thing makes quite a splatter.
All day, conscripted cows are fed on tasty grasses.
Then, at night, they drop their turds on foreign asses.
One huge one-eyed cow they called ‘Cyclops’
dropped last week the mother of all flops.
Bovine bombs have even disturbed ranks at ISIS,
who must now condemn this U.S. cow crap crisis.
So far, enemies get just one break.
When they shoot one down, they all eat steak.
by Rick Young | Apr 19, 2017 | Poem
Thinking machine warped.
That was the rumor.
Perhaps a pressure on the brain,
a tumor?
No reason for the aberrant behavior.
No defenders, certainly no savior.
And now the time had come
to pay the price.
The options like a pair of loaded dice.
Go back on point
and thus return to normal.
Declare oneself insane
and make it formal.
Regardless, said the judge,
of what your choice is, you must
kill off at least one set of voices.
Or pick eternal quietude instead.
Then spend your days
amongst the living dead.
But, lo, he found the back route
out of hell
that hung inside the haven of his cell.
by Rick Young | Apr 11, 2017 | Poem
I am in the middle of an instant revolution
when the alarm rings and I am sent back
to my sedentary self. No planet has my calendar
on its docket. Eight ball, side pocket.
Suddenly, I’m back on the green and, sight unseen,
I disappear. My hideaway dreams have outbid
t.v shows, and, like that, I’m on the front line
in small letters, watching tomorrow’s fortune today.
by Rick Young | Apr 10, 2017 | Poem
I knew a cow whose fur was made of sparks.
Because of this, he found that he’d been banned from many parks.
He longed to get into Comiskey.
But secret service found him frisky.
So, on his birthday, he drank whiskey.
And later tried to buy some weed from narcs.
He’s an indy cow. Indy cow.
And his yellow belly longs for peace.
He loves Indy chow. Indy chow.
His intestines sing selected songs from "Grease."
PUSH SPECIAL BUTTON SHAPED LIKE COW
choose song & import video now
NOTE: Indy cow can be any religion or sexual persuasion
He’s available for birthday fun or any old occasion
Buy tickets now for next month’s one cow performance:
"I sold my soul to Nike and became some Jordan Airs."
Phil Ochs Died For Our Sins 4/9/76
by Rick Young | Apr 7, 2017 | Poem
Its sprouts look like an onion bulb,
but smell like vanilla, or, in some strains,
cinnamon, the driver explained as we careened
along rain-slicked back roads to his country home.
I was still wearing my suit and had brought nothing.
Curtailing my long explanation, he pointed a hitcher’s thumb
toward the back seat and said, "you can wear my work shirt."
There, on a wire hanger, was a bright blue tie-dyed tee.
Quick as that, everything was cool.
And the world’s greatest song played on his cassette deck.
