9.4.25

Four Poems by Mark Young

Curriculum Vitae

 

beginning:

 

her father was

an orthopaedic

surgeon, her

mother a relaunched

hippy. both were un-

imaginative. she

grew up

footloose &

fancy free.

 

intermission:

 

patience

wears thin

through prolonged

use. it should be

changed at

least every other

day or

sooner

if you

can’t stand

waiting.

 

end:

 

the night.

the left-over

layers

 

 

A / Pilgrim Father / walks past Mar-a-Lago

 

The granaries are choked

with fervor. Dust spills

& spreads, excludes the sky,

occludes the light. A virtual

night I walk & talk through,

articulated limbs but un-

articulated fears. In some

strange manner I’ve become

 

a reluctant pedestrian on

someone else’s treadmill. Have

found myself, have found

myself to be what I am

most afraid of. Uncertain.

& these are certain times.

 

 

La Carriole du Père Junier

 

A week late I finally

get around to turning

over the calendar. De-

cember in this collection

of loose impressionists

is represented by the

pompous toll-collector,

Le Douanier, Henri

 

Rousseau. It cheers me

up immediately. But what

a waste. My depression

could have been carried

away in Father Junier's

cart seven days ago.

 

 

After Cézanne

 

Two peaches

one orange

two nectarines

four kiwifruit

one green apple

two red apples

 

a white bowl

side table

clear satin varnish

a light burnish of dust.

 

One peach

one nectarine

three kiwifruit

one green apple

one red apple

 

a white bowl

side table

clear satin varnish

fingermarks.

5.4.25

Two Poems by Tim Frank

How to Vote
Fold an injured pigeon
and hurl it at the fridge.
Allow the bird to stagger
down a sewer
made of spoons.
It’ll vote
inside a phone box
for a leader dressed in Brie.
Beware, little children!
freedom is a hoax
a void of faceless blurs.

Heading South 
Satellites are falling
Like frogs
In sand and sweat.
You quote the Psalms
Like Stanley Kubrick
Wearing boxing gloves.
So, choke on your chubby thumbs
Vomit up your pills,
It will take you
Beyond your sickness
To a mind
Heading south.
The sun isn’t yellow it’s chicken,
And it’s so hot
It makes you want to dash
Your skull against the mirror.
Your name is Bob,
Like it always was.