Poems by Mark Young

THE PIPE FLOATING IN ITS IMAGISTIC HEAVEN

There are two pipes. Or,
rather, two drawings of
the same pipe which are
meant both to please others
& ourselves, & to make
others pleased with us.

Do not say there is no heart
in the work here—its basis is
the human heart. The sorcery
lies in an operation rendered
invisible by the simplicity
of its result—to make

the pipe new, but floating in
a natural silence where
attention to the small details
extends it more than
it illustrates it or fills the
void. To make it legend.


Sources:

This Is Not a Pipe, by Michel Foucault
The Ladies' Book of Etiquette (1860), by Florence Hartley


A PROCESS OF TRANSFER

I'm currently living in Austin, TX
where my boyfriend has a car &
a set of girl's confirmation dolls. He
doesn't let me drive his car, but I'll
play with the dolls until I can no
longer ignore his snide comments.
The weather out here, like any self-
assembly of living matter, is suggest-

ive of ecological city infography in
flat design &/or traditional &/or
cloud-based applications to eliminate
noise from any nearby optical field.
Traveling is portrayed as functionally
illiterate. It doesn't have to be that way.


FROM THE POUND CANTOS: CENTO XXXVII

Mr Webster, a man of straw, had no desire
that the interruption of social intercourse
shd. continue. So far, so good. But when the

time came to fire he merely lit a cigarette
& walked away. This is Mitteleuropa;
nothing good is recorded. The March folk

now go to Verona to buy cloth well colored
or, needing salt, make their peace with Venice.
"Can Portugal keep it up?" a lady asks me,

" now that the cannibals of Europe are eating
one another again." The cicadas continue
uninterrupted, borne into the tempest,

black cloud wrapping their wings. The
night hollow beneath them. Time is the evil.