Alex Young
Canvas

Scrappy grace,
wobbly politics,
let me count & broke I’ll
swoon.  Tell us how
to do it and we’ll
fuck it up again.
Minus consistency,
all this gives up
smilingly, conscious
the postures, theunwitting didn’t—
most ways we
tell, the movement
from here to here
takes our pace.  The
proximity in terms
we must care for
causes too much
talking.  It’s the gestural,
your usefulness,
more than what
cares for me.
The idea’s dread
of its missing
persons, unsaid when
most say.  Listen to
laughter’s obsession
with timing, and cruelty
finds a place for itself,
right where the
time goes.  Irony is
a better conclusion
than conceit.  My questions
ask for bread
while my body considers
the circumstances. Thoughts
dream bankrupt patterns
aimed at every
migrant constituency.
Ration your
denials.  They are the
clapping of a polite
audience, the right noise
at the right time. 

Alex Young came to New York City by way of Oklahoma, Colorado, and Alaska. Some of his other recent work can be seen in the Fall 2004 issue of The Columbia Review.