Faux Pho (1974)

by Rick Young | Dec 31, 2017 | Poem

Far away in the nearest corner
where the brown hot orange tree
swung its globe the grass unburned
was shaded green and dark below
the hanging wood. A single bound
dislodged the fruit and stripped it
bare of its appeal. The branches
cold and yellow now gave out and wept
red tears that dyed the land at its base.
It was all so base and we ate like pigs.

(originally appeared in Montage, Spring ’74
as "The people pay to watch me lie.")

Callow Mystic

by Rick Young | Dec 31, 2017 | Poem

He choked at the fishbone market
and froze up the watering place.
His lies were little lessons,
terribly unscientific but frighteningly real.
Sputtering vile mare’s nest!
He sank in his own filthy dreams,
reeking of incense and hollandaise,
his prophesies chipped and unfixed.
He left enough masks behind
to play out the fabrication,
and a suicide note
that turned out to be the bible.