Manic is the Night
—Poems and Photos by Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL
MANIC IS THE DARK NIGHT
Deep into the forest
the trees have turned
black, and the sun
has disappeared in
the distance beneath
the earth line, leaving
the sky a palette of grays
sheltering the pine trees
with pitch-tar shadows.
It's here in this black
and sky gray the mind
turns psycho
tosses norms and pathos
into a ground cellar of hell,
tosses words out through the teeth.
“Don’t smile or act funny,
try to be cute with me;
how can I help you today
out of your depression?”
I feel jubilant, I feel over the moon
with euphoric gaiety.
Deep into the forest
the trees have turned
black, and the sun
has disappeared in
the distance beneath
the earth line, leaving
the sky a palette of grays
sheltering the pine trees
with pitch-tar shadows.
It's here in this black
and sky gray the mind
turns psycho
tosses norms and pathos
into a ground cellar of hell,
tosses words out through the teeth.
“Don’t smile or act funny,
try to be cute with me;
how can I help you today
out of your depression?”
I feel jubilant, I feel over the moon
with euphoric gaiety.
YOU CAN’T LOVE A CORPSE
You can't love a corpse
'cause a corpse can't
love for free—
between being here once,
now gone.
Years pass
memories of then
photograph in heart now.
There he is on hard times,
hollow days,
Christmas Eve playing
Halloween tricks.
He speaks memories in
your eyes, they keep you twisting.
The cheers, the methodology,
the mirror, pools, of dark still water—
history is the way your face looks
when you wake up from this dream.
He was the best of images reflected.
The deep frost
amber memories
expose his face tonight
the way it was—
antiquities, ceremonies
of the living dead.
The farm, the farmer,
children,
campfires,
hayrides, friends,
harvester,
this way the Ottawa,
Illinois sky covers
its face with orange smears.
Little sticks of carrots
pop up from the ground,
farm reports and crop prices,
neighbors’ yellow harvest the corn.
Phillip was/is a good man
gone piecemeal dry.
Everything comes back
in brilliant face,
colors, autumn leaves,
then passes quiet
back into the night.
Somber, sober, this marking
of fragments I share this
space in time with you.
Resurrection Mary
RESURRECTION MARY
I learned years ago, true stories against myths.
I learned early in hustle time to distinguish single cash back rewards
from whores—dime store dancers from true date believers—
I never worried about the sentence structure of my life.
Life is a melody breather, philosophy of ghosts, past, pink pillow talk.
Resurrection Mary was my history teacher, my lesson, lover in white satin.
Single life is a hollow road, and a narrow road with a cemetery nearby.
I was then and now a writer, poetry of screams, dementia, limited skills, and open skulls.
I hampered history into our craniums, criminal minds, images of release, sperm climax.
When she was conscious, she kissed my breath, and dreamed of my beginning, my end.
I was a drifter of singles dances; she was a drifter of time, shadow maker.
I often breathed on her forehead, sucked on her toes, left the body for legends
tossed carcass into the south wind and south gate storms.
Jesus is a perfume seller of night scent.
Jesus is aroused and an iron bar bender, stretcher of the nights into years.
Mary clutches her small purse, passes of injustice, and hitchhikes back and forth in time.
I am stamped; shake me, watch click in time—
Resurrection Mary still holds a red wine glass, end of the barstool in time.
Shake it all off, no shame; put those dancing shoes on, one more time.
There was nothing special about women, young in Chicago '30's.
Resurrection Mary, danced, stamped a white wedding dress poetry mind, sex out, gone.
She taught me oral sex at lunchtime.
Resurrection Mary, we still hold wine, at end of the barstool.
Shake, no shame, put those dancing shoes on.
LEROY AND HIS LOVE AFFAIR
Girlie magazines dating back to 1972 are scattered across the floor.
The skeletons of two pet canaries lie dormant inside a wired cage.
Bessie Mae died here 8 months ago.
From her lips, and from her eyes comes nothing like before.
Leroy, her lover, her only friend, the man she lived with for
over 30 years locked her body in their bedroom.
He didn't want to part from her.
Leroy has no friends to detect anything that might be suspect.
He wants nothing between the two of them at all.
No one comes near to interfere.
Their bedroom is padlocked, stale, and stagnant with mildew, looking
the way it did before she died.
Foul odors ooze up through their bedroom ventilation ducts,
Leroy contends that a dead rat in the basement is causing the odors.
Leroy loves to lie about his sacred love affairs.
Layers of dust blanket over the mahogany floors, and the maid doesn’t come
here anymore.
Bessie Mae’s remains are wrapped in a scarlet housecoat,
Dried blood sleeps in a small pool beneath her bed.
In time they both will sleep, sole witnesses to this fiasco
their lives will catch them in; enduring it, holding
their tongues till time matters no more.
Nothing appears changed, lovers unwilling to depart.
I’M SHADOW SHREDDER
I take your ghost pile
gold your multi dreams,
bones of scattered parts,
twisted thoughts
moss that tangles
brain construction,
derailments—
these are desperate nights.
I shred them for you.
Devil is rhythm of rain,
a crossword of slices
you hold both blades.
Devil storms, holds drama
in your brain.
Give me your mass ruminations,
I vacuum them, flush out free.
I write this song of your depression.
I’m shredder man.
I free park your brain,
you toss me bushels of anxiety,
I use them, create a rainbow
of positive thoughts,
eliminate negatives,
cross over the bridge with
private pray, I’m your friend—
prayer partner, weeper night.
Rainbows send no darts
nor daggers.
Hearts and queens—
we’re all gamblers,
cards decked, stacked.
Toss me into your fears,
I’ll harvest them in grace.
Depression is a sucker, carp,
bottom dweller, feeder,
found in theater horrors
at night, leaser of ghost tears.
From my heart
I give Christ salvation active
to you:
Pray, I’m the shedder man.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Ghosts were created when the first man woke up in the night.
—James M. Barrie
_____________________
Many thanks to Michael Lee Johnson for today’s haunting poetry and photos and his talk of ghosts past, present and otherwise! Michael’s poetry videos on YouTube can be seen at www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos/. For more about Resurrection Mary, see www.chicagonow.com/chicago-quirk/2011/10/meet-chicagos-most-famous-ghost-resurrection-mary/.
—Medusa
—Anonymous
Celebrate poetry!—and ghosts!
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