Sam’s tag by Mark Young

It’s a dream weekend. The hard-

est sheriff in the stratosphere

has just been given a get out of

jail card from the populist DoNut

Mixing Machine. North Korea has

launched three short-haul missiles

at the McDonalds just over the

border asking if they deliver, &,

 

if they do, could they please send

a Big Mac & fries to the Glorious

Leader. Circus camels admit

they slip out at nights to work

as escorts, will continue to hump

for as long as they like it. Mourta

is leaving Dhanai punai &

coming to the mountains of Mars.

 

 

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. A limited edition chapbook, A Few Geographies, was recently released by One Sentence Poems as the initial offering in their new range.

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The fighter jets by Mark Young

come in
over the
runway,
low, half

a minute
apart, no
need to
touch down

on an area
they have
already made
their own. So.

Into the air
again, steep
rise, forty-
five degrees,

turning first
towards the
sea & then
sweeping in-

land in an
arc, corral-
ling the
noise that

trails behind
them before
closing the
loop tight,

capturing
everything —
clouds, birds,
noise, the

people on
the ground —
but taking no
prisoners.

11.04 a.m. by Mark Young

The helicopters come

rotoring in. Which means:

not rescue operations but

war games. & since it

seems that most of the

 

Australian Armed Forces

are either overseas in

Syria or Afghanistan at

Trump’s behest, or in-

volved in trials accused of

 

cat-killing, bastardization,

or drug abuse, I suppose

we should be pleased

that soon the jets of the

Singaporean Air Force

 

will come screaming down

the valley upsetting

the mosquitoes & injecting

much needed millions

into the local economy.