with some more wine
 
a gypsy once told me
i would die a lonely 
death
 
i asked her would 
that vision change 
with some more 
wine
 
she laughed and 
said no
 
i believe i was 
drunk enough
i swore i would 
prove her wrong
 
just more of the 
usual bullshit that 
comes from liquid 
courage

Thin Ice

The stuff of dreams
Is hard to figure,
Is it here,
Or is it there?
It has to be real somewhere,
If only in your mind...
The place you often
Walk thin ice.

Collide-O-Scope
 
I admit I may have had one glass too many, but used paper face masks littered the ground. How’s that allowed? Even the crows on the wire must have wondered what the fuck. A series of incidents doesn’t necessarily add up to a plot. 
&
We are the rifles our ancestors didn’t have. At the Battle of Marengo, Napoleon’s soldiers urinated on muskets that had become too hot to handle from constant firing. The bold red patches on the shoulders of uniforms alluded to Christ’s wounds.
&
That country no longer exists. Yet some who came from faraway to be there refuse to leave. They burn flags in protest, chant revolutionary slogans, throw rocks and bottles. Police in riot gear struggle in vain to restore order. And why shouldn’t they? Each night the moon just grows fatter.
&
A lot that happened just sort of happened. I probably shouldn’t compare myself, but Roal Dahl also had eighteen teeth pulled. He kept a caged bat as a pet, feeding it a diet of milk and bread, a crime gorgeously lit by big arched windows. 
&
When the wind ripples the leaves, the leaves speak in the doomy voice of prophecy. It’s like one of those maps on the wall with an arrow saying, “You are here.”

232 THIS YEAR, SO FAR

I find myself lost in the news
of statistics. The economy glazes into
columns of indistinguishable symbols,
clouding into some grim portent under which my primitive
mind can only tremble and hope.
 
Polls tick off who might think what now and when
but math seems irrelevant in the shadow
of amoral calculus. Numbers wilt against the wall
of willful ignorance, like a dog forgotten in the sun,
still worthy but abandoned.
 
And the people. Counted. Dead.
Four or more (not including the shooter),
grouped and catalogued and added and subtracted
and piled on the fire, glowing hotter
and growing closer, leaving behind charred families
and chasms, but not yet large enough
to threaten us all.
 
Though smoke has infiltrated
the movies and the malls and the arenas
and the churches and the mosques
and the synagogues and the schools
and the businesses and the homes
and the streets, the entire world
is technically not yet on fire.      
                                                     
I find myself lost in math.
I understand what equals what,
but it doesn’t seem to mean anything.

Death Trains

 

Chimps living in captivity are known

to throw their poop at their keepers,

and so it is that as he looks out on the railyard,

where special police in black uniforms

enforce the loading of a long line of boxcars,

the inoffensive little clerk with a clipboard

is very glad that people aren’t like chimps.

Affection Bandit Blues
 
Decades ago my green canoe ran aground, 
so I’m slumpin’ on a sandbar surrounded 
by ardent bucks paddlin’ the River Amore
unwary of wakes, snakes, a treacherous shore.
I’m a retired Ol’ Man tryin’ to forget my regrets,
bouncin’ my shoes to the affection bandit blues.
 
Floatin’ down the River in my thirties, 
my squintin’ blue eyes searched the levees,
like a bald eagle seekin’ catfish and carp,
wantin’ to see a smilin’ gal wavin’ to me,
blowin’ red kisses, beckonin’ my boat 
to a ramp of crushed rock or a rickety dock.
 
Steered clear of nasty women lookin’ for screws,
but she could be oblong, obese, oddly hewed.
On the muddy bank, we’d bed down on a blanket
cushioned by cattails, blue verlain, coneflowers.
Touched ‘em feathery (no scratch or neck bruise).
A spiritual connection of an hour’s duration or two.
 
Even if they wanted a gown, a weddin’ cake,
I launched my canoe, left ‘em in a watery wake.
They had proved I was lovable. That was enough.
Beamed as I paddled past bluffs, huffin’ barges,
not realizin’ my fevered gazes and gallantry
expressed nuthin’ but my affection banditry.
 
No druggin’ pills like the funny TV father,
no job promises or threats like the producers,
no unzipped pants or grabbin’ like the Presidents.
Yet I wonder now if some women remember me
and shout “MeToo’s” to the skies. That’s why 
I blush and sing the affection bandit blues.
 
Memories come in a meanderin’ stream. 
Lonely gals who loved me for a night, 
then waited for a call that never came.
When a friend was liftin’ the trunk of her car,
I caressed the plums of her tree ‘til she swatted free. 
Names that make me feel guilty: Cindy, Cathy, Nancy.
 
Now I’m an Ol’ Man drained of pirate dreams,
watchin’ other fools comin’ unspooled
in the steamin’ whirlin’ pools of the River Amore.
Sure, I was wronged as much as I wronged,
but now that my paddle’s been termite chewed,
all I can do is bray the affection bandit blues.
.

Poets Out of Service (V6)
By Michael Lee Johnson
 
Like a full-service gas station
or postal service workers
displaced, racing to Staples retail
for employment against the rules of labor,
poets are out of business nowadays, you know.
Who carries a loose change in their pockets?
Who tosses loose coins in their car ashtray anymore?
iPhones, smartphones, life is a video camera
ready to shoot, destroy, and expose.
No one reads poets anymore. 
No one thumbs through the yellow pages anymore.
Who has sex in the back seat of their car anymore,
just naked shots passed around online?
Streetwalkers, bleach blonde whores,
cosmetic plastic altered faces in the neon night;
they don’t bother to pick pennies
or quarters off the streets anymore.
The days of surprise candy bags for a nickel
pennies lying on the countertop for
Tar Babies, Strawberry Licorice Laces
(2 for a penny), Wax Lips, Pixie Sticks,
Good & Plenty are no more.
Everyone is a dead-end player; he dies with time.
Monster technology destroys crump fragments of culture.
Old age is a passive slut; engaging old age
conversations idle to a whisper and sleep alone.
Matchbox, hand-rolled cigarettes,
serrated, slimmed down, and gone.
Time is a broken stopwatch gone by.
Life is a defunct full-service gas station.
Poets are out of business nowadays.

lighting a wet match

i tossed my sin sticks and hurricanes 
into a sacrificial heap: 

am i free?

i’ve given up singing the lies in
liederkreis:

am i free now?

i’ve not doused my hair in chemicals
for a brood of old months:

shall i be free?

i seldom leave the
great indoors anymore

a prisoner to myself, in 
shambles and shackles 

for better 
and worse

an altar-less shrine 
for mourning and rue  

where you may toss
your faulty matches

and decimate your
glass of spirits

The Pain And The Violet Sky


The violet sky
with pale grey clouds
feels oppressive overhead.
The trees on the horizon
seem to linger with intent.
I remember walking this same
route 20 years ago. 
At two in the morning to score
some smack.

I imagined serial killers
hiding in the trees.
I ran as quickly as I could,
to get back home,
holding the gear tightly
in my hand.

At least then I knew the pain would
go away as soon as I got home.
Now, I know that the pain will never go away. 

Seasoning

Been watching a few of the Monarchs
Pass through,
Reminds me that life goes on...
And puts me in mind of a Monarch
I saw,
About 52 years ago.
What I saw in those days
Looked different for sure;
It was a time when my heart was young,
Before any real darkness
Had come...
A time before I began
To be seasoned,
More learned,
With more knowledge of pain.
Since those days
I have learned to know thirst,
And have patience,
And wait on the rain.