Selected Poems of Kevin Young Poem Text

Selected Poems of Kevin Young Poem Text

from Book of Hours

The light here leaves you

lonely, fading

as does the dusk

that takes too long

to arrive. By morning

the mountain moving

a bit closer to the sun.

This valley belongs

to no one—

except birds who name

themselves by their songs

in the dawn.

What good

are wishes, if they aren't

used up

The lamp of your arms.

The brightest

blue beneath the clouds—

We guess

at what's next

unlike the mountain

who knows it

in the bones, a music

too high

to scale.

* * *

The burnt,

blurred world

where does it end—

The wind

kicks up the scent

from the stables

where horseshoes hold

not just luck, but

beyond. But

weight. But a body

that itself burns,

begs to run.

The gondola quits just

past the clouds.

The telephone poles

tall crosses in the road.

Let us go

each, into the valley—

turn ourselves

& our hairshirts

inside out, let the world

itch—for once—

* * *

Black like an eye

bruised night brightens

by morning, yellow

then grey—

a memory.

What the light was like.

All day the heat a heavy,

colored coat.

I want to lie

down like the lamb—

down & down

till gone—

shorn of its wool.

The cool

of setting & rising

in this valley,

the canyon between us

shoulders our echoes.

Moan, & make way.

* * *

The sun's small fury

feeds me.

Wind dying down.

We delay, & dither

then are lifted

into it, brightness

all about—

O setting.

O the music

as we soar

is small, yet sating.

What you want—

Nobody, or nothing

fills our short journeying.

Above even the birds,

winging heavenward,

the world is hard

to leave behind

or land against—

must end.

I mean to make it.

Turning slow beneath

our feet,

finding sun, seen

from above,

this world looks

like us—mostly

salt, dark water.

* * *

It's death there

is no cure for

life the long

disease.

If we're lucky.

Otherwise, short

trip beyond.

And below.

Noon,

growing shadow.

I chase the quiet

round the house.

Soon the sound—

wind wills

its way against

the panes. Welcome

the rain.

Welcome

the moon's squinting

into space.

The trees

bow like priests.

The storm lifts

up the leaves.

Why not sing.

Cadillac Moon

Crashing

again—Basquiat

sends fenders

& letters headlong

into each other

the future. Fusion.

AAAAAAAAAAA.

Big Bang. The Big

Apple, Atom's

behind him—

no sirens

in sight. His career

of careening

since—at six—

playing stickball

a car stole

his spleen. Blind

sided. Move

along folks—nothing

to see here. Driven,

does two Caddys

colliding, biting

the dust he's begun

to snort. Hit

& run. Red

Cross—the pill-pale

ambulance, inside

out, he hitched

to the hospital.

Joy ride. Hot

wired. O the rush

before the wreck—

each Cadillac,

a Titanic,

an iceberg that's met

its match—cabin

flooded

like an engine,

drawing even

dark Shine

from below deck.

FLATS FIX. Chop

shop. Body work

while-u-wait. In situ

the spleen

or lien, anterior view—

removed. Given

Gray's Anatomy

by his mother for recovery—

151. Reflexion of spleen

turned forwards

& to the right, like

pages of a book—

Basquiat pulled

into orbit

with tide, the moon

gold as a tooth,

a hubcap gleaming,

gleaned—Shine

swimming for land,

somewhere solid

to spin his own obit.

Beyond Words

Mudd Club 4th floor gallery
Manhattan, April 1981

If you bomb

the IND

or tag the 2

downtown

—gallery-bound—

dousing it in tribal

shrapnel, you're it

—the shit—

If you can lie

between the rails

—Please Stand

Clear the Closing—

or press yourselves

betw. train

& the wall

spray can rattling

like a tooth—The roof

the roof

the roof is on

fire—soon

the 6 will whistle

past, swinging

like a night stick—

Officer Pup throwing

a brick

@ that Mouse

Ignatz, in love—

#$!?!!!!—then

you'll have found

risk. A calling—

Crash, Daze, Pray

covering trains

like cave paintings,

avoiding the German

shepherds—ACHTUNG—

while the cars sit

in the yards

—what no one else in this

city owns. Making

their names

known—Dondi, Boy-

5, B-Sirius, Crazy

Legs, Coolie C—

The city clears

its throat

the subway shaking

the buildings above—

We don't need

no water let

the motherfucker

burn— Futura 2000,

Phase II, Quick

& Sex & Zephyr

& Lady Pink—

Fab 5 Freddy

(n� Braithwaite)

saying everyone's

a star. "Rapture"—

the whole planet's in

on it—Chilly Most

Being the Host Coast

to Coast—Freddy's painted

Campbell's Soup Cans that read

DADA & POP instead

of beef barley—

the UFO has landed

& a brother's

stepped out, alien, dressed

in white. Then when

there's no more cars

he goes out at night

& eats up bars—

graffiti like 3 card monte—

running, avoiding the pigs

like a black muslim

bean pie. DJ spinning

says my my.

Pay attn.—

say, ain't that

Basquiat spinning

disks behind Blondie—

SAMO AS AN END

TO MINDWASH RELIGION—

45s stacked high

as a Dag-

wood sammich?

Hungry, this B-

boy's headed

to the top—Yes

Yes y'all

You don't stop—

blowing up.

Aunties

There's a way a woman

will not

relinquish

her pocketbook

even pulled

onstage, or called up

to the pulpit—

there's a way only

your Auntie can make it

taste right—

rice & gravy

is a meal

if my late Great Aunt

Toota makes it—

Aunts cook like

there's no tomorrow

& they're right.

Too hot

is how my Aunt Tuddie

peppers everything,

her name given

by my father, four, seeing

her smiling in her crib.

There's a barrel

full of rainwater

beside the house

that my infant father will fall

into, trying to see

himself—the bottom—

& there's his sister

Margie yanking him out

by his hair grown long

as superstition. Never mind

the flyswatter they chase you

round the house

& into the yard with

ready to whup the daylights

out of you—

that's only a threat—

Aunties will fix you

potato salad

& save

you some. Godmothers,

godsends,

Aunts smoke like

it's going out of style—

& it is—

make even gold

teeth look right, shining.

saying I'll be

John, with a sigh. Make way

out of no way—

keep they key

to the scale that weighed

the cotton, the cane

we raised more

than our share of—

If not them, then who

will win heaven?

holding tight

to their pocketbooks

at the pearly gates

just in case.

Kevin Young

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