Mike Young | MC Oroville's Answering Machine
Yr not dreaming. Yes, number 11 in the fantastic Transmission lineage is here. However, you may feel like yr dreaming when reading this book. Yr head might lift off from yr shoulders and you better hope you've got some kind of tether. Otherwise, yr head, bouncing around the stratosphere, might end up in one of Mike's poems. And, also, at least as far as I know, you probably wouldn't survive. Good luck with that.
So, you see, what you got yrself here is a fine book of poetry. Feel that plush poetry-y seating. Notice the spacious back seat. Smell that new poetry smell. And that engine. Holy smokes, does that engine v-room like the dickens. I do believe this is something you could live with a very long time and never want to trade in. What do you say?
This book is printed on different colored coverstock, in an edition of 150, and is available for sale thru PayPal below.
Here's a poem from Mike Young's book, MC OROVILLE'S ANSWERING MACHINE... ________________________
DO YOU LIKE MY SUNGLASSES?
Last seen in the junkyard on a yellow bike. Seen burning his mouth on the Keg Room pizza. Seen bearded at the punk shows in the autoshop lot, where I met a girl who made me lick the rain off the chainlinks and stop talking up a shitstorm. Some say MC Oroville moved south to work at a thrift store in the East Bay. Reprezent! It's not like we won't wait. We sell our water south, but the State keeps the money. In Scoops, the chicken mango dog tastes like the chicken Mediterranean dog. But we're trying. If someone invents a machine to bring murals alive, we will need new brochures. I bought Wayne the river for his birthday, and he promised to build a basement beneath it, in case MC Oroville needs to crash real low. At Staples, a drunk in a blue sundress watches the punks make flyers. She asks them if they like her sunglasses, her John Lennon sunglasses! But they are only the Wild Wild West sunglasses Burger King gave away in 1999. Then the punks split, and the lady photocopies her ID—some dispute with the law, the landlord. After she's evicted, she writes a letter. To my delicious punks, she writes. Kick out the links, eat the rain back to where it starts, find somebody's hair and set that hair on fire.