by Rick Young | Nov 30, 2017 | Poem
Henry Miller on t.v. right now, middle of the night, old and white
with his memories (his mother hated him for not becoming a tailor).
Some fear has me in its wind. Tonight the first time out of the house in four days.
Cars like menacing drones with their unpredictable minds, people leering,
wearing their habits (death like a brother flows through Miller through Assisi)
with what grace they can muster, or, lacking this, press their faces on the windows
of the moment. Food, like lumps of the earth, bringing the presence of animals
into the caves of the body, flows outside. I am dealing with things as intrusions,
everything but words, reading furiously and hearing everything.
Last time out went slamming from a barroom for this very reason.
Tonight the place has no effect, just a feeling of weight that borders sadness.
Now I must have the radio on (you see). The writer with his cane has gone off,
nothing but exploding autos on the dial. My eyes are attracted to the flames.
For nights the coincidental shadows on this couch have been playing over this body.
Still it knows nothing, yet feels, perhaps, that it does. Sinewed darkness moves time
somehow faster, making it more valuable. The days I have been throwing over,
as if with a fork, while each night, collected and compressed like a diamond,
stands shining behind the eyes. My plan is to sleep through Charlie Chan
and see what happens then. I am very worried about changes in the world,
mine as well as everyone else’s. My preoccupation with life is visibly diminished.
The first show has come and gone, the second on its way. So what?
How many times do we have to say that? Are we so civilized the snow must mean
more than itself? Pop goes the weasel. I dig myself under cover.
by Rick Young | Nov 30, 2017 | Poem
Black Friday is the big day of the capitalist year,
where shoppers get to fight and save while wearing riot gear.
The scuffles people go through just to save a dollar bill
make the gruesome scenes in "Fight Club" look a little chill.
Their purchases come home in boxes somewhat crushed and bloody.
Hey, it looks as if you might have lost some teeth there, buddy.
By Saturday and Sunday things have calmed down at the mall.
Your car’s parked so far away it’s a long distance call.
They call it Cyber Monday, but then Tuesday’s just the same.
It’s all the big green cherry of the advertising game.
by Rick Young | Nov 29, 2017 | Poem
My uncle was a mercenary in a foreign war.
It was very hush-hush. We don’t know who he fought for.
All he said was he had many notches on his gun.
As a boy I’d see him comin’, then I’d start to run.
Killin’ folks for money is an awful evil scam.
Takes a special kind of soul to just not give a damn.
Later on when he was old, my uncle went insane.
Doctors said perhaps he had some shrapnel in his brain.
I think it was just the memories of the blood he shed.
How can one walk through his life on roads built by the dead?
Killin’ folks for money is the worst of lifestyle choices.
It’s no wonder Uncle Sam went crazy hearin’ voices.
by Rick Young | Nov 28, 2017 | Song
Little Riddle said the way you got ’em
was a passing glance as if you shot ’em.
In the middle of his dirty bottom was a tattooed star.
Used to line his eyes but never dot ’em,
wear his boots until the mud would rot ’em.
Drive his bike until the cops would spot him.
In his head he heard a soft guitar.
All roads would lead up to the cabin.
He’d light a fire that would end up with him dabbin’.
He took to melancholy tunes that felt like stabbin’.
Out in the weeds there was a tireless car.
Anyone within a hundred miles
knew he had a nest of crocodiles.
The police sketch looked like he was Harry Styles,
but with a mean old scar.
And every time they had the boy surrounded,
he would escape in ways that just astounded.
His feet were flyin’ but his head was grounded.
They’d search for hours for him near and far.
He’d show up later in another county.
It didn’t matter what they set as bounty.
Could be Columbo or a Do-Right mountie.
He was a snake under a limbo bar.
The Little Riddle legend still is told.
A hero outlaw story don’t grow old.
There could be ten more verses might unfold.
Maybe some day there’ll be a seminar.
All roads would lead up to the cabin.
He’d light a fire that would end up with him dabbin’.
He took to melancholy tunes that felt like stabbin’.
And in his head he heard a soft guitar.
by Rick Young | Nov 19, 2017 | Poem
I passed out on the avenue, I fell down on the street.
I swooned under the sway of every drug dealer I’d meet.
I’d smoke whatever came into my hands, from coke to cocoa.
I spent much of my formative days just plain goin’ loco.
There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do, my bottom line was low.
I thought that when I died I would be eulogized and so
my legacy would follow me and reputation grow.
But as the years went by I saw this was a great big no.
I was an alcoholic, a drug addict and a fool.
The times that I awoke in small cells should have been my school.
My learning curve was filled with blurs and downright blackout hours.
Perhaps some higher power kept me from pushin’ up flowers.
I’ve had a quad heart bypass and survived spinal infection.
It’s amazing that I still incur so much affection.
I’m good with kids and animals seem to thrive in my realm.
My boat is leaky, creaky, but I still stand in the helm.
Perhaps there is a further shore upon which I might land.
And finally build my castle of a wonderment of sand.
