6/6/2017 Poetry by Mark Youngfor Norbert Wiener The cyber netics of night in that stars advance mechanic ally & I can feel them through my flesh. The Owls There's always an audience out there. It's just that some- times you've got to go out on a limb to pull them in. Don't be subtle about it. Start by covering the exterior walls of your house with sheets of corrugated iron painted in primary colors. Wait until round about midnight, then walk out into the garden & begin reciting your poems. This will infuriate the owls. Poetry confuses them. They're sure to retaliate, lay shit on your renovations, stare at you with those big wide eyes they have & say: You should have used wood or adobe. Or: A delicate shade of lime would have been much more relaxing. But keep at the poems until the owls have finished hooting at you, then point out how the colors now make it easier for them to separate the mice from the surrounding shrubbery. They will pause, then nod. It'll be faint praise, but at least you won't be damned by it, & with a reliable food supply available the owls will stick around. People will come to see them. Some may even stay & listen to your poetry. post meridian The first time for some time past, the river. It seems surprisingly low, even though for the four or so years before the recent floods this is how we always knew it. On to the backroad short-cut, only to find it’s still closed, water over it, not quite a causeway. I describe an ankh, then retrace the stem. Galahs on the wires, Madonna on the car radio, Cherish, a boppy song. I bongo the steering wheel on the longer way home. Bio: Mark Young's most recent books are Ley Lines & bricolage, both from gradient books of Finland, The Chorus of the Sphinxes, from Moria Books in Chicago, & some more strange meteorites, from Meritage & i.e. Press, California / New York. Comments are closed.
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