Summer 2002 • Vol. XXIV No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 2002 |

Republican Victory

In the field, the complex snowmen have been kicked apart. Some had used the familiar scarecrow matrix, others were dead inside, cloned like modem clocks. Someone has squeezed the tube out. Someone has broken the lever off. I bet this deflated football served as a pancreas. Was it a question of oxygen to the brain? Here's a whole family: sad. Soon this field will be hash-marked again, tackling dummies in formation. My hands are cold. At some point, I gave up my youthful dream of robotics, of handling toxic substances with remote control arms. Soon there will be robots small enough to enter the bloodstream but probably too late for you and me. Have you ever looked down upon your laid-open self and felt only mildly abashed, foreshortened, unsequestered, wind in your ears? That's when the people of the future contact me with a song that's actually a series of beeps because that's what music has become for them, the people of the future. Some of their f

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My People

By Dean Young

In the field, the complex snowmen have been kicked apart. Some had used the familiar scarecrow matrix, others were dead inside, cloned like modem clocks. Someone has squeezed the tube […]

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