by Rick Young | Dec 5, 2017 | Poem
You duck walk like a North Korean,
Earlene insists, humorlessly.
Tomorrow we’ll be selling
all my Chuck Berry records.
We’ve only been on meth two weeks
and already there are slashes everywhere,
the couch, the shades, the freaking
coffee table. My shirt. Her high tops.
Next week we’ll hock the jewelry
lifted from her mother’s bureau,
maybe buy some cans of soup
with our week’s supply, get ready
for wrecked teeth. My face is splotchy.
And, for all our closeness,
I never even look at hers.
by Rick Young | Dec 4, 2017 | Poem
Nausea.
Mon dieu,
stand back, I may hurl.
I drink too much
damned ennui
in this
existential world.
by Rick Young | Dec 4, 2017 | Poem
when i’m watered i feel like a flower
i even drink when i am in the shower
two cups of H2O in every hour
i’m like a steamboat runnin’ paddle power
i’ve got a gallon challenge on a bet
i drink more water than a household pet
i’m just not happy when my throat’s not wet
but please don’t hit me with that water jet
by Rick Young | Dec 3, 2017 | Poem
We think of your spurious garages
robed in the feeble edges of flat tire lungs
your oil cans like robot teats
for monkey wrenches howling around the ominous batteries
sublimated spark plugs and anxious metal pedals.
We think of your lucite panels
your millions of drops of what color is that paint
your manic neon tubes and delicate sockets
plagued with the symptoms of exhaust
all gray-toothed and punk around the nuclei.
We think of your exposed hollows
your pop and jingling clothesline threads of lifepatch
humming ballads on everlasting and conclusion
to your rejected driveways
the impregnable axons of a constricted vision.
by Rick Young | Dec 3, 2017 | Poem
You know we are not alone.
Out the window there’s a drone.
Insect nose against the glass,
photographing your bare ass.
Drone, I curse your every blade.
What gives you rights to invade?
Now from sea to shining sea
there’s no chance for privacy.
Keep your shade down, curtain drawn.
One just landed on the lawn.
Just how long before this hobby
intertwines with the gun lobby?
Geeks get that transcendent thrill,
scoring points with each new kill.
A drone is like a robot pet.
Whirled, you ain’t seen nothing yet.
