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aayoung

Poetry, Prose, Art, Photography, Random Shit

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punk

war by candlelight

amidst the curiosities

of my yet to be packed up

roll top desk

i found a diamond bracelet

you had given me

hiding in one of

the apothecary drawers

it reminded me immediately

how you waged

war by candlelight

instinctively i pulled the pin

on that gauche grenade

lobbing the tacky bauble

into the goose shit encircled pond

behind the house

your weaponry

is not welcome here

anymore

dad’s gonna be pissed

my generation had no great war

until the towers fell

and the government invented one

then we were told

it’s not our fight

beyond the departures gate

at the airport

our struggle is removing our shoes

and grabby TSA agents

we never grew a victory garden

we never salvaged all our metal to make bullets

or watched the soldierly  Vietnam death toll

march across the bottom of our television screens

we were raised by Atari systems, Pop Rocks, Sweet Valley High books,

and Bob Barker’s skinny microphone

so forgive me, my fellow

generationally x’d out americans

if i don’t give a shit

about your opinions on the upcoming election

New from Leaky Boot Press: Fried Chicken, Schmussy, and Other Songs From a Baptist Hymal by Alicia Young

fried_chicken_cover

To Order:

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or

https://www.bookdepository.com/Fried-Chicken–Schmussy—Other-Songs-from-a-Baptist-Hymnal/9781909849242

(Ships free from the United Kingdom to any location in the world!)

powerful dumb

i have no fear of death

i’m not particularly concerned with my life expectancy

possessing the prescience of mind

if and when i reach 75

i will feel powerful dumb

as i tally the amount of time

i have spent in line at starbucks

on hold waiting for a customer service representative

watching television commercials

sitting in traffic

logged into a pseudo society online

listening to politicians lie

writing student loan checks

forcing a faux smile to an asshole

and feel i deserve

to be flattened by a speeding bullet train

into a scraping trail of bloody offal

for my cowardice

for failing to truly live

for accepting coffee and credit card offers as a substitute

for wasting my life

Tiny Jack

little boy

nine years old, I’d say

leaning on the wall by the

Newberry Medal bookshelf

red Chuck Taylor’s

one foot pulled up

brown hair

tan corduroys ripped at the knee

not-so-white button down shirt

looking like a

tiny Jack

Kerouac

eyes wide

lost in the pages of

A Wrinkle in Time

I smile and think

one day

he’ll be traveling

On the Road

 

on fire

just for a moment

i want to be

humphrey bogart’s

cigarette

love in the time of chipped nail polish

me walking in my late thirties overcoat

on the sidewalk behind her

downwind

she smelled like Love’s Baby Soft

cigarettes

Doc Martins lockstep with teenage sin

and i thought how freeing it would be

to be that oblivious again

deep down inside

never make the mistake

of clinging to the notion

that someone is good

deep down inside

because

eventually

painfully

regrettably

you will come to realize

they do not have

a

deep down inside

 

poetry called…

…she said

she wants you to stop

using her as an excuse

for being an asshole…

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