SurVision Magazine / Michael T. Young

Lessons from Dinner with a Despot

There are worms that feed on starlight
and excrete a ticking in the walls.

It's what the children tried to tell us
and we mistook for hunger.

A clerk filed the last twitching stars
and soldiers jailed sailors seeking true north.

All the books in the library told us
freedom follows a river

until you reach the sea.
In the daylight of nightmares

everyone dreams of sleep
but no one can close their eyes.

The Get Address

Years ago, our fathers bought this continent,
conceived and dedicated to men, their inflated deal.

Now we are staged as bait—gravel, far tossed in weather,
animation contrived, so debated: one long forgery.

We get a great battle! We halve some to indicate
abortion of what's felt, as a finial blessed in place,

fortress where lathe and lives fashion might.
It is witty we prosper and should do this.

But, in a largesse dispense?—we cannot.
We cannot integrate, weaken shadow, give ground.

The brave, living and dead, are our power
to add or detract. The world will note what we say here;

it can never forget. It is for us, who eradicated
the work which we bought, gave us nobility.

It is for us. We here dedicated to the great mask,
the reigning before us—that from trees, horned reed,

we take increase. We motion the traps, cross
forests, which they gave, the last full treasure.

We resolve that fleece, that we have not lied in vain—
that this depletion of wonder have a new birth
and people shall perish from the earth.

Cricket Fire

Because we both strike flint in every finger
and walk a quietness thin as a blade of grass
there's an understanding between us.

But that's only in daylight while every tongue
clovers in the wells and watches for night,
lichen leathering the stairs leading up to great halls.

It's then an edge cuts into the dark, though
its doors stay closed. Waters serrate corridors,
sear curtains and melt the window glass.

What I hold dear in such dreams is the sound
of translucent saws grinding the midnight barrels.
Dragged over the rugs of sleeping beetles,

that fractured wood trails coal tar and slate,
a blossom kindling a path of Saintpaulia.
I limp down that road all the way to the river

where I drink from the morning's first petal.

Michael T. Young lives in New Jersey. His poetry has been featured in Verse Daily and The Writer's Almanac and appeared, or is forthcoming, in Gargoyle Magazine, One, Rattle, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Vox Populi, etc. His third full-length collection, The Infinite Doctrine
of Water, was longlisted for the Julie Suk Award. He received a Fellowship from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.

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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English. Issue Seven MICHAEL T. YOUNG Lessons from Dinner with a Despot There are worms that feed on starlight and excrete a ticking in the walls. It's what the children tried to tell us and we mistook for hunger. A clerk filed the last twitching stars and soldiers jailed sailors seeking true north. All the books in the library told us freedom follows a river until you reach the sea. In the daylight of nightmares everyone dreams of sleep but no one can close their eyes. The Get Address Years ago, our fathers bought this continent, conceived and dedicated to men, their inflated deal. Now we are staged as bait—gravel, far tossed in weather, animation contrived, so debated: one long forgery. We get a great battle! We halve some to indicate abortion of what's felt, as a finial blessed in place, fortress where lathe and lives fashion might. It is witty we prosper and should do this. But, in a largesse dispense?—we cannot. We cannot integrate, weaken shadow, give ground. The brave, living and dead, are our power to add or detract. The world will note what we say here; it can never forget. It is for us, who eradicated the work which we bought, gave us nobility. It is for us. We here dedicated to the great mask, the reigning before us—that from trees, horned reed, we take increase. We motion the traps, cross forests, which they gave, the last full treasure. We resolve that fleece, that we have not lied in vain— that this depletion of wonder have a new birth and people shall perish from the earth. Cricket Fire Because we both strike flint in every finger and walk a quietness thin as a blade of grass there's an understanding between us. But that's only in daylight while every tongue clovers in the wells and watches for night, lichen leathering the stairs leading up to great halls. It's then an edge cuts into the dark, though its doors stay closed. Waters serrate corridors, sear curtains and melt the window glass. What I hold dear in such dreams is the sound of translucent saws grinding the midnight barrels. Dragged over the rugs of sleeping beetles, that fractured wood trails coal tar and slate, a blossom kindling a path of Saintpaulia. I limp down that road all the way to the river where I drink from the morning's first petal. Michael T. Young lives in New Jersey. His poetry has been featured in Verse Daily and The Writer's Almanac and appeared, or is forthcoming, in Gargoyle Magazine, One, Rattle, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Vox Populi, etc. His third full-length collection, The Infinite Doctrine of Water, was longlisted for the Julie Suk Award. He received a Fellowship from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.
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