Jellyfish 1.0 | Spring 2009 | leave the archives
Mike Young is the author of two forthcoming chapbooks:
MC Oroville's Answering Machine (Transmission Press)
and Real Sturdy Thing (Stormy Petrel Press). He co-edits NOÖ Journal
and Magic Helicopter Press. Visit him online at http://mike.noojournal.com.
Do You Pray in the Shower?
No, but I do pretend to give interviews.
Which is another kind of complex, right?
Anything you can do, I can make a doll.
Zee mirror is a kind of punch clock, too,
and then you go "Then so—" "Exactly."
Wouldn't it be nice to serve a head less?
Can't a guy say uh oh, chocolate maltballs?
Ride an antelope into the breaker room
or even be of snow on almonds generally?
This is this's fault, and I won't call you
"okay" unless that's really your name.
I wanted to show you more, but you were
in it, so I couldn't. Lillian zydeco hill bait.
I want to be useful as secret mouthwash.
If you rest halves of ping pong balls over
your eyes and indulge a bout of radio static,
it's like no one can judge you for being
afraid of LSD. It's hard to admit, but not all
of us will dance on your birthday at 4:52.
Look, they come in your house and nothing
is missing after they leave and you want to
thank someone. That's natural. I can see you.
God, grant me a belief in mostly everything.
Please don't make me call you selfish again.
Lovesong with Civic Responsibility
We could hotwire this blood drive van
and never feel too slow for our hearts.
This kind of thing has precedents, even
balloons and sanitary tape. Your horse
Pumpkin can ride too if she shaves the
act off, swims back up the womb of the
respectable. You know, turns into a
local sports anchor. “This is Pumpkin,
reporting at a yellow. Wowee, look, I’m
biased. I’ve served caution its tea
and all I’ve won is my beach shadow
makes it to the water and I don’t.”
Blood drive van plows into ice cream
museum, blood drive pirates ransack
Peter Pans to New York for cheap
dates. Blood drive revolutionaries
blip bloop across the CIA’s map of
Levels of Concern Below “Hooker Riot.”
Drip goes our siren. When all this dies
fondly, they’ll have to establish some
holiday. Kids will vaguely herald
Pumpkin on Mondays off, as they
rip new xylophone tricks and mud
tickle. No, I don’t know what kids oh
my God about these days or if my arm’s
purple blotches need more serious
care than what I have, right now,
in your gurney of positive O.