Six Poems

By Mark Young

At the skating rink

The inner shell is ground-
ed & filled with gargoyles
or garlic — the translation
is unclear. Filming is not
allowed, nor is the spoken
word, nor even thinking
about them. Definitions do
not necessarily match the

codes given by the docents,
nor do the docents align
with any given schedule
sheet. They float, speech-
less, cameras consigned by
gravity to act as loincloths.

& if one remembers

The water-
pockets in the
canyon over-
flow with ticker
tape & 1000
year old
writings. Wild-

flowers bloom
along the one
arm which is
all that re-
mains of the
Y chromosome.

More about Bicycles

Why does fashion
always have to
reflect old art move-
ments? & why is it
difficult to find an-
archist works in

English that are
at the same time
individualist. I’m
new here & so, al-
though not needing
to, apologize for

the state of the art
expressways & fly-
overs that open the
pasture gate to syntax
mistakes & 12-hour
porkbarrel picnics.

A line from François Truffaut

The echo intensity from rain
reminds you of an animal not
even on another’s radar. We all
exercise for different reasons

& in different ways. The best
scenario involves switching
movement patterns frequently
& rapidly; balancing torques at

the knee & hip with acupuncture
meridians to smooth energy flow.
This way the rain returns only as
ultrasound images of skeletal muscle.

Watching / the Mayor / give elocution lessons

Such a sibilant chorus! The
drones blown in by summer,
the static brought about
by a passed season of condi-
ment containers. There were

character witnesses in the
awnings & the clock-tower;
rubber birds invented excuses
for their offspring; the sea
forgot itself & froze. Meantime

time spent in a nearby coffee
shop was charged at time &
a half. The local union of
marriage brokers agreed. Many
uniforms were in attendance.

To Jukka, on holiday in Heinola

There was an owl in the garden last night, showing up as a moving patch of gray in the dark hollows between the palm trees. It paused on a low branch about two meters above the ground & ten meters from where I sat having a cigarette. Turned its back on me when I turned a flashlight on it.

I haven’t got around to planting bananas yet; but the pineapples are coming along in a piece of what was overgrown undergrowth that I cleared especially for them. Several varieties. No fruit yet, not even a central stalk; but the leaves are glossy green & increasing in size. All this from the small piece of core that remained when the crown was twisted off. Plugged into the soil. Watered well.

How’s it going in Heinola, fixing the cabin, digging the well? Hope you don’t get blisters on your palmpilot hands. Holiday cabins in New Zealand are generally built near the beach. You’ll love what the local name for them is. Pronounced “batch” but spelt “bach.”

I’ve sent Eileen the bio notes & a short publicity piece called A True History of the Oracular Sonnets. So everything’s in place.

Am leaving for Auckland in a couple of days, off to be a public poet for the first time in thirty years. You gone north, me going south. Even closer to our respective Poles. But what’s another thousand or so kilometers between friends? Distance is a relative thing.

Will write again soon.


Mark Young is the author of over forty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, & art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages. His most recent books are random salamanders, a Wanton Text Production, & Circus economies, from gradient books of Finland.

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