Friday, February 24, 2017

Seethe and Moan and Laugh Out Loud at My Own Jokes


Dean Young

To always be in motion there is no choice
even for the mountain and its frigid
cousins floating on the oceans that even sluggish
seethe and moan and laugh out loud at their own
jokes. How "like the human heart" can be said of
pert near everything, pint of fizz, punching
bag because all moves: the mouse, the house,
the pelt of moon corresponding to the seas
(see above) (now get back here) of mood,
sadness heaving kelp at the sunken city's
face, gladness somersaulting from the eaves
like a kid's drawing of a snowflake. No matter
how stalled I seem, some crank in me
tightens the whirly-spring each time I see
your face so thank you for aiming it
my way, all this flashing like polished
brass, lightning, powder, step on the gas,
whoosh we're halfway through our lives,
fishmarkets flying by, Connecticut,
glut then scarcity, hurried haircuts,
smell of pencils sharpened, striving,
falling short, surviving because we ducked
or somehow got some shut-eye even though
inside the hotel wall loud leaks. I love
to watch the youthful flush drub your cheeks
in your galloping dream. Maybe even
death will be replenishment. Who knows?
Who has the time, let's go, the unknown's
display of emeralds closes in an hour,
the fireworks' formula has changed, will we
ever see that tangerine blue again, factory
boarded up then turned into bowling lanes.


  1. I can vouch. You always loved George more.

    1. Just as you did for The Motherfucking Doors. Thanks. xoxo

  2. "Blow Away" will be a tune I'll no longer be able to listen to once dad is gone. His favorite tune, and one I heard him repeat seven... eight... nine times in a row on a Saturday morning when I was a kid. George is the best. Happy soon-to-be birthday, old friend (there's my guess for you).

    The only thing that can equal the dread caused to me by the bizarre winter weather in the Midwest, the seeming impossibility of a truly revolutionary party apparatus in the United States, and Rob Manfred's dedication to the destruction of the game of baseball is the lingering Clinton virus. I will die with it still hobbling the body politic.