Coronary Reflexions 31 to 40
David L. Young
31.
I Am a Time Bomb
32.
The Chameleon
33.
Toxic Revolution
34.
Maintaining
36.
Under the Ice
38.
Arlington
39.
Resurrection
40. Nigger
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January
1989 / New York City
my
fuse is getting short
lately
the
clock's not big enough:
i
used to think
people
who went over the
edge
were weak --
like
guys like gary who shot john
and
john who shot ron
and
that son of a b --
sam,
who would've shot everybody,
not
to mention herod, pol, and joe,
and
let's not forget adolf --
maybe
they just had
one
too many bad days
in
a row ...
now
i know
and
i'm waiting to blow.
sometimes
i think i'll just sit
on
the floor at grand central,
become
a bag man,
give
up responsibility,
wife,
kids,
job
...
truth
is, today
if
one more person
would've
bumped into me
i'd've let 'em have it
March
1989 / New York City
just
a minute
with
an idol and i'm them,
the
laugh or expressions, nasty
or
giving, quite naturally adopted
for
the situation. even pet phrases
and
favorite gestures to emphasize
important
points are synthesized into
the
acceptance-seeking paradigm dictating
emotion.
energy surges inward, waves over-
lapping
character by character until the uncontained
fluid
splattering in a million directions
that
is my identity gels into the i
of
the occasion.
not
that it
always
has to be an idol --
insecurity
neither shows partiality
nor
plays favorites, so any present
companion
will suffice -- there's always
a
buffet of idiosyncrasies from which to
choose,
each individual laden with an abundance
of
traits ripe for the picking. course, any fool'd
search
for someone of importance or at least so
deemed
by current popular demand. But, like most
i
must settle for what's available 'cause my
surrounding's
constantly changing and
i must adapt to survive.
(for
the Khemer children)
August
1986 / January 1989
Verona,
PA / New York City
severe,
satirical,
emanating
from a point, a hub
capable
of searing or destroying,
chemical
in nature,
she's
toxic;
savage
smile will cut,
she'll
kill --
servant
of cold repression,
dirty
little fingers
clutching
blades of steel,
begs
for a future,
caught
beneath the wheel;
innocence,
trampled into pride, runs
to
the borders
through
a rising tide,
adolescent
armies spill blood
and
bone, bitterness and anger turn
the
grinding stone;
terrifying
children of the night,
coals
of iron fury blazing
evil
light, fan the holocaust:
hollow
caustic nation
is
a burning pyre, revolution
hatred
sets hearts on fire ...
eyes
of iron can kill
children
of fire will die
under the wheel
February
1989 / Wilton, CT
we
like single points
charted
on line graphs
connect
at seams by joints
welded
tight by laughs
stars
spread out to burn
dropping
beads of light;
huddling
tight we turn
inward
fighting off night
birds
nomad to eat
breaking
ground with knives;
we
glue us to the street
in boxed containers called lives
March
1989 / New York City
these
corporate types
are
in too much of a rush:
three
or four have been in
and
out of the adjoining cubicle
in
the time it's taken me to jot
these
lines, count the tiles on the floor,
don
a few thoughts -- and i've yet
to
do my business; if that's the
difference
between a pro
and
a support person, i'll take the stall
over the heart attack any time
February
1989 / Wilton CT
into
the hole
out
the other side
again
and again
pull
tight
first
one
then
the other
cut
into the mirror
lean
right, turn left
push
off right
left
opened
arms
tuck
in
swirling,
head up
facing
the wind
falling
falling
cracking
splashing
passing
through reflections
eye
level with the sky
going
under
under
looking up
blurs
race frantic
on
top of clouds
cold
closing in
embracing
fingers, feet, hair
white-noise
lullaby
dream
sleep
Light
December
1986 / Springdale, PA
enthroned
above myriads of faces,
crowned
in golden diadem
bright
as jasper, clear as quartz,
eyes
blazing like coals
through
an emerald rainbow,
the
King gazes down
to
transparent forms
burning
from within;
shining
in a sea of glass,
they
mirror His glory:
every
gentle word
or
graceful wave of hand
caresses
their will --
love
obeys where love reigns --
the
crucial flame
in
a purifying crucible
is
obedience.
brightening
earth,
though
darkness crowds round,
the
Light shines:
it cannot be extinguished.
March
1989 / Darien, CT
What
a blast it was
when
they laid dad out
in
his best dress blacks
and
the twenty-one bangs
echoed
'cross the lawn, kids
staring
at the razor-sharp-creased
sailors
folding the flag, marching up
to
mom, who took it proudly, standing straight
in
the din of the clickety-clack
rhythmic
chitchat and straight-eyed
don't-glance-from-side-to-side
hup-to
military
protocol that was impressive enough but
didn't
hold a candle to the hazel
soft-as-a-summer-lawn-eyed
do-it-right-or-don't-do-it-at-all
man whose
clay
lay beneath but whose light
shone dazzling from above.
January
1989 / New York City
meandering
spots of light dance off my pen
as
yarns of shoestring verse unfurl and spin,
indignant
meters gasp and grasp each line,
shuffling
to accommodate the rhyme;
crushed
by sassy feet -- the poet's whim --
and
gleaming with great drops -- the toil of thought --
the
paper warps with black too thick to blot
and
casts its inky burden to the wind.
the
sweat of art sits dying in an air
of
tacit hours and bittersweet despair,
a
distant vacuum terror calls for death
to
suck it dry and still its final breath;
till
by some chance i quell the raking curse
and
lift the corpse, an offering high above
requesting
grace from them who live for love
to
keep the body from the darkened hearse.
perhaps
good faith will change frail hope to joy
and
will the phantom spark of life employ,
with
trembling lips apart i speak out bold,
dispelling
doubt and driving off the cold;
then
silently, like torment of the brave,
majestic
and eternal, true divine,
converging
image of a soul sublime
stands again and rises from the grave.
1979
/ State College
you
know me not
and
yet you judge
this
institution
won't
let me be
you
hold a grudge
against
my grain
your
constitution
declares
me free
but
i can't budge
and
i can't gain
you
know me not
but
still you blame.
you
know me not
and
still you turn
my
indignation
refuse
to see
won't
let me learn
to
leave my trap
your
segregation
says
i'm not free
my
help you spurn
my
face you slap
you
know me not
i'm much too black.
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