by Rick Young | Jun 29, 2019 | Poem
How can one photograph peace and quiet?
Is it just a scene without a riot?
Does tweeting of the birds count the same as human words?
And where put hunting season’s gunshots diet?
Because part of the silence includes natural violence,
some say peace can’t be found. But I don’t buy it.
by Rick Young | Jun 26, 2019 | List
A waitress in Chicago spit on Eric.
Flamingo killer struck dead by a truck.
The chief of protocol threatened his workers with a whip.
The news is weird today. Seems we’re in luck.
Some twenty Dems are ready to debate insanity.
And Cardi B will fight her strip club charge.
Kim Jong Un is leading POTUS by his vanity.
While killer Saudi prince still’s living large.
Our captives at the border cannot get a bar of soap.
And cell phones create horn-like bumps on skulls.
Roy Moore is coming back, which must give pedophiles some hope.
What say we spit on Eric during lulls.
by Rick Young | Jun 23, 2019 | Poem
I just found Google Chrome was spying on my home.
It said that I should probably change my shirt.
Not only did its sentiment upset them,
they said it needed washing for the dirt.
The shirt said “Keep your nose out of my business.”
I’m tired of their snooping and their lies.
They’re past the line where they can plead forgiveness.
Their cookie bombs taste bitterly of spies.
I don’t need Chrome suggestions for my wardrobe.
I don’t want ad blurbs ‘tailored’ to my taste.
I’ll switch to a new browser if one more probe
seems to lay my privacy to waste.
So, goodbye Google Chrome, hello Mozilla.
Your Foxfire does not seem quite so covert.
Surveillance software’s somewhat like Godzilla.
Beneath its plodding steps, someone gets hurt.
by Rick Young | Jun 20, 2019 | Obit
He drove a pencil through the webbing of his palm.
I needed lead, he said, and then applied a balm.
He poured a morning drink, something he called a buffer.
He had a firm belief an artist has to suffer.
His every action aimed at feeling precious pain.
He walked for hours in the night beneath the rain.
He carved designs upon his arms with razor blades,
and painted pictures on his chest in blood cascades.
He took to chasing pills with whiskey as a perk.
He called it research; it was all part of his work.
One day he met a guy he knew and bought a gun.
He put a bullet in the cylinder for fun.
Each morn he’d spin that thing and point it at his head.
He’d pull the trigger and then figure if he’s dead.
One day no answer came and that was when he knew.
He’d blown his chance, he’d left the dance.
His writing days were through.
by Rick Young | Jun 16, 2019 | Poem
What do you say to your father, Eric and Don?
That all depends if the tape recorder’s on.
If it’s rolling, then it’s, Happy Father’s Day!
If it’s not, then, What’d Putin send your way?
We’re both hoping it’s a big red tie.
Or a manual on how to lie.
Maybe secret codes? Who knows what that bodes?
Maybe he’ll give Star Force half the sky.
He said for your next inauguration
he’ll send you that tape of urination.
With that safe from every fake news station,
you can take a four-year-long vacation.
Move the white house down to Mar a Lago.
where our brothers Brutus and Iago
can finally leave their cage.
They’ve almost come of age.
We’ll form a new Capone gang like Chicago.
And then, at last, you can date your own daughter.
In Florida, there’s weird things in the water.
If Vlad just plays his cards,
you two can become pards:
the Red and Orange Travel Troop of Slaughter!
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.
