—Poetry Courtesy of Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Michael Lee Johnson
and Joe Nolan
POETS DIE
Why do poets die;
linger in youth
addicted to death.
They create culture
but so crippled.
They seldom harm
except themselves—
why not let them live?
Their only crime is words
they shout them out in anger
cry out loud, vulgar in private
places like Indiana cornfields.
In fall, poets stretch arms out,
their spines the centerpiece
on crosses on scarecrows,
they only frighten themselves.
They travel in their minds,
or watch from condo windows,
the mirage, these changing colors,
those leaves; they harm no one.
Why do poets die;
linger in youth
addicted to death.
They create culture
but so crippled.
They seldom harm
except themselves—
why not let them live?
Their only crime is words
they shout them out in anger
cry out loud, vulgar in private
places like Indiana cornfields.
In fall, poets stretch arms out,
their spines the centerpiece
on crosses on scarecrows,
they only frighten themselves.
They travel in their minds,
or watch from condo windows,
the mirage, these changing colors,
those leaves; they harm no one.
POETS OUT OF SERVICE
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.
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.
DEEP IN MY COUCH
Deep in my couch
of magnetic dust,
I am a bearded old man.
I pull out my last bundle
of memories beneath
my pillow for review.
What is left, old man,
cry solo in the dark.
Here is a small treasure chest
of crude diamonds, a glimpse
of white gold, charcoal,
fingers dipped in black tar.
I am a temple of worship with trinket dreams,
a tea kettle whistling ex-lovers boiling inside.
At dawn, shove them under, let me work.
We are all passengers traveling
on that train of the past—
senses, sins, errors, or omissions
deep in that couch.
Deep in my couch
of magnetic dust,
I am a bearded old man.
I pull out my last bundle
of memories beneath
my pillow for review.
What is left, old man,
cry solo in the dark.
Here is a small treasure chest
of crude diamonds, a glimpse
of white gold, charcoal,
fingers dipped in black tar.
I am a temple of worship with trinket dreams,
a tea kettle whistling ex-lovers boiling inside.
At dawn, shove them under, let me work.
We are all passengers traveling
on that train of the past—
senses, sins, errors, or omissions
deep in that couch.
NIGHTLIFE JUNGLE BEAT,
BAR NEXT DOOR
Like all things, life changes, its melodies fragment.
It breaks pieces apart, then they drift, then shatter.
The singers of songs love bars,
naked bodies, consistencies, and inconsistencies
that makes it burn all turn outright at night.
They like to drum repeat rhythms and sounds.
Poets like to retreat to dens
of pleasure just like these.
Sing poets, sing off-key
free verse notes down by the bridge,
near the river as far as their voices
will carry them away.
It is the nature of difference,
indifference a vocabulary of us confused,
minds between insanity and genius.
The hermit asks for
a public forum in shyness,
while treading to the bar
next door for a shot of tequila,
no money, no life.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Unbeing dead isn’t being alive.
—e.e. cummings
___________________
SnakePals everywhere are sending thoughts (and thanks for his poetry!) to Michael Lee Johnson, who was in a serious auto accident last year—a setback from which he is still recovering. Michael leads a huge poetry group on the Internet called “Contemporary Poets, Their Words, Current Poetry Projects, News, Links” (www.facebook.com/groups/807679459328998). His own website is www.facebook.com/poetrymanusa/.
Like all things, life changes, its melodies fragment.
It breaks pieces apart, then they drift, then shatter.
The singers of songs love bars,
naked bodies, consistencies, and inconsistencies
that makes it burn all turn outright at night.
They like to drum repeat rhythms and sounds.
Poets like to retreat to dens
of pleasure just like these.
Sing poets, sing off-key
free verse notes down by the bridge,
near the river as far as their voices
will carry them away.
It is the nature of difference,
indifference a vocabulary of us confused,
minds between insanity and genius.
The hermit asks for
a public forum in shyness,
while treading to the bar
next door for a shot of tequila,
no money, no life.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Unbeing dead isn’t being alive.
—e.e. cummings
___________________
SnakePals everywhere are sending thoughts (and thanks for his poetry!) to Michael Lee Johnson, who was in a serious auto accident last year—a setback from which he is still recovering. Michael leads a huge poetry group on the Internet called “Contemporary Poets, Their Words, Current Poetry Projects, News, Links” (www.facebook.com/groups/807679459328998). His own website is www.facebook.com/poetrymanusa/.
Today through Sat., Sierra College and Sierra College Press present 2022 Sierra Writers Conference on Zoom: "Stories Matter: (Re)Imagining Past and Future". Info/tickets: sierrawritersconference.wordpress.com/.
Tonight (Thursday, 2/10) at 7pm, Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis presents SF Poet Laureate Tongo Eisen-Martin and Landon Smith via Zoom: ucdavis.zoom.us/my/andyojones/. Open mic after the readers (one chosen text or three minutes). Host: Dr. Andy Jones. Info: www.facebook.com/events/692686261722369/?ref=newsfeed/.
Also tonight (Thursday, 2/10), 5pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance’s Fireside Book Club will meet online to discuss Pablo Neruda: 20 Love Poems and a Song of Despair, hosted by Frank Dixon Graham. Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/81872835469/. Interested in more book club activities? Join the group at: www.facebook.com/groups/4484141535016793/.
_______________________
—Medusa
_______________________
—Medusa
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