you're so long it's almost legal


Studies have shown that only the sleep deprived will
sleep with me. My housemate just mentioned a velvet
dick--maybe that's the standard we're working under?
But I look upon your petrified daughters of the revolution
forest, your barns of Vermont with mallard animations
sponsored by all-things-will-pass.com, your gorges and
sweet corn, thunderstorms and chimney ingenuity,
your Presidential asparagus and miles of stone,
maple ice cream, scholarships and flannel sunsets,
wheat league baseball and weak kneed scholars,
your fifteen dollar demolition derby tickets and two
fingered prayers, blueberry marshes and cabbage malls,
hypothetical dance crazes post-Liberal victory, your pet
yawns, your house walrus, your imitation of the walrus
yawn, your cell phone chargers and giant mums, all the
Appleseed cousins agape in the Connecticut with hacksaws for
medicine, all the sisters of former Energy Secretaries in
progressive high school theatres and coffeeshop divorce trials,
your decent mileage versus your snow tires versus your
bicycle endorsement, theoretically, for others--"hey,
wait, I own seven bicycles, they're on Craigslist"--
your three dollar avocados and great advancements in
emotional theory, your Thishampton and Thathampton,
your one exit to Fenway Park and your legitimate fear of
hugs--don't worry, I'm not going to hug you, I'm an
intellectual--your byzantine Pike and moose and trains,
your girls of interesting tattoos such as powerlines,
the way your long winters crimp even Santa to liquor,
your grave, dark haired feminist boys who tow the good ship
Beard Trimmer from one sullen hook up to another, who lazily
graze on their own fuck ups and network in the shower,
who in lieu of pecans will toast your pumpkin seeds,
that being a kind of sexual innuendo I won't explain,
not in the face of your expensive research and cheap
buses, not without a draft from your snow plow driver's
early bourbon, not unless I'm allowed to debut the great
Hawaiian shirt of my intuition that suggests I call your
bullshit. Nope! For now I look upon your Hudson River
School dream innovations as an invitation to my own
entitlement, the backwards Pac Man of American Destiny
that I will do my hella best to manifest upon your shore.
In the kitchen of your renovated mill. In the basement
of an all-girls college dorm and how we're not endearing
back and forth, New England, since we're neither of us
mulberry hedges sheared toward a clever apology or
a petition to keep cocaine out of our vulnerable sunsets
and deep under the minus twenty degree snow drifts of
April where it so belongs and might lead a Hampshire grad
guilty on the bacon of Derridean blowjobs to say "I'm
tough, I know why wheat bread is better and why white bread
tricked everybody after the Great Depression, ready to say
'Hey, thanks for the footstool.' And so I announce my
intentions to announce New Hampshire's New Man in the Mtn!"
Which they really will build; I'm not saying they won't.
I'm not offending you on purpose by asking to see your
tattoo, it's just I'm curious, some curious hick on the
back of a condor all the way here from a cheap place
like Reno, the Reno in your head I mean, because I really
dig your heads and all the different little heads under
wool here. They're the evolution of heads, I think.
I look upon your heads and your thin legs built of some
cigarette / asparagus hybrid with zero emissions not
frozen like me in this stupid leather jacket and I think
"Dear Entitlement, I'm not asleep yet. Give me your
smallpox lecture. Everyone should have sex on Emily
Dickinson's grave is my theory, and if you need a
ticket man, I'll be him, or a new pronoun! I'm almost
not kidding. Home is not just where to bed an easy love.
The home should always look a little like it's dead."


gabe durham said...

If even one New England hug occurs because of this poem, it will be a big win for California and its constituency.

TTB said...

ttb is spamming on your board.

ttb is mystically spamming on your board.

ttb found your blog.
ttb went to your blog.
ttb is writing on your blog comment posted section.
ttb sees you on the sidewalk.
ttb is flying over head.

maggie said...

i fucking love this deluge of yours, mike young.


Mike Young said...

thanks ddv!

ttb, you and me on the sidewalk, fight to the death.


that might be my favorite thing of yours ever, poetry-wise. really really good

Mike Young said...

gracias blake kind sir

Live@theGrouchoClub said...

You should try to develop some sense of dynamic in your poems. Every string of words being thrown at us from within the same fever-pitch gets old once we've developed a tolerance for the buzz we get off of your absurdist shennanigans.

I mean...do you always have to be so...slippery?

:) You're the best! keep 'em comin'

Live@theGrouchoClub said...

I meant to say "dynamics."

Mike Young said...

ben, this sort of feels like an exclamation point on a certain style. i've not written a poem since this one. maybe i will be writing different stuff now, for a while. who knows. we'll soon see, jah?

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