Poetry

October 31, 2017 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Mike Wilson photo

 

By

Michael Lee Johnson

 

 

 

Detective Poetic Johnson Here

 

 

December 1st 2016,

Detective Johnson here.

I see my shrink for the 1st time,

I’m low maintenance, one every 3 months,

Dr. Pennypecker.  He is tight ass conservative type

with a raisin dry personality who tries to keep sober

and focused so he can focus on me.

I’m a grade 3 drop out with a degree

in elementary school bullshit.

 

I ask him how his children are.

“I only have one, let’s focus on YOU!”

Nice haircut, Dr. Pennypecker,

have you ever noticed how the poor people

who usually come here, are Mexicans,

and they all can afford a $60 a month cell phone?

“Let’s stay focused!”

 

I tell Dr. Pennypecker I love Jesus, I love the Holy Ghost,

I love the Father; most of these Mexicans do too.

With all these rain clouds up above outside this window here,

I believe we are all together until I pass.

“Now that is interesting, let’s focus on that!”

I tell Dr. Pennypecker when I get upset about something

I know is my fault and I do have problems

sleeping but I don’t dwell on that too much.

“Let’s focus on that!”

 

Is 20 milligrams of Citalopram, antidepressants, generic,

enough or should we cut it back?

Oh no, don’t do that Dr. Pennypecker.  By the way, Dr. Pennypecker,

how do you cut your hair in the back when you have your own Wal-Mart

Pro Clipper Haircutting Kit set on # 2?

“I put a paper back there and I put a mirror back there and I sort of do,

no, no, let’s not focus on that!”

 

I walk out the door ready for my next appointment 3 months down the road.

I open the door for a stranger ready for his appointment; I say, “have a good day.”

He is so self-centered, that his long hair and the way he moves back and forth

sways, swings, doesn’t say anything he is so damn self-absorbed in his own gray cloud.

 

This was my day with Dr. Pennypecker.

 

 

 

 

I Edit My Life

 

 

I edit my life.

Clothesline pins & clips

hang to dry

dirty laundry.

I turn poetic hedonistic

in my early 70’s,

reviewing the joys

and the sorrows

of my journey.

 

I find myself wanting

a new review, a new product,

a new time machine,

a new internet space,

a new planet where

we small, wee creative

creatures can grow.

 

 

 

 

Lilly, Lonely Trailer Prostitute

 

 

Paint your face with cosmetic smiles.

Toss your breast around with synthetic plastic.

Don’t leak single secrets to strangers-

locked in your trailer 8 foot wide by 50 foot long

with twisted carrots, cucumbers, weak batteries,

and colorful dildos-you’ve even given them names:

Adams’s pleasure skin, big Ben on the raise, Rasputin:

the Mad Monk-oh no, no, no.

Your legs hang with the signed signatures

of playboys and drifters ink.

The lot rent went up again this year.

Paint your face, walk the streets

again with cosmetic smiles.

 

 

 

 

Alexandra David-Neel

 

 

She edits her life from a room made dark

against a desert dropping summer sun.

A daring travelling Parisian adventurer

ultimate princess turning toad with age-

snow drops of white in her hair, tiny fingers

thumb joints osteoarthritis

corrects proofs at 100, pours whiskey,

pours over what she wrote

scribbles notes directed to the future,

applies for a new passport.

With this mount of macular degeneration,

near, monster of writers’ approach.

She wears no spectacles.

Her mind teeters between Himalayas,

distant Gobi Desert, but subjectively warm.

Running reason through her head for living,

yet dancing with the youthful word of Cinderella,

she plunges deeper near death into Tibetan mysticism,

trekking across snow covered mountains to Lhasa, Tibet.

Nighttime rest, sleepy face, peeking out that window crack

into the nest, those quiet villages below

tasting that reality beyond all her years’

vastness of dreams.

 

 

 

 

Painted Cat

 

 

This painted cat

on my balcony

hangs in this sun,

bleaches out

it’s wooden

survival kit,

cut short-

then rots

chips

paint

cracks

widen in joints,

no infant sparrow wings

nestled in this hole

beneath its neck-

then falls down.

No longer a swinger

in latter days, August wind.

 

 

 

 

Oh Carol, Poem

 

 

You treat me like soiled underwear.

I work my way through.

I gave up jitterbug dancing, that cha-cha-chá,

all my eccentric moves, theatric acting, poetry slams.

I seek refuge away old films, nightmares

you jumping from my raspberry Geo Chevy Tracker

repeat you stunt from my black 2002 S-10 Chevy truck, Schaumburg, IL.

I toss tarnished photographs out windows of hell

seek new selfies, myself.

I’m a rock-in-roll Jesus, a damn good poetry man,

talent alone is not enough storage space to strip

you away from my skin, distant myself from your

ridicule, those harsh words you can’t take back

once they are out like Gorilla Glue, as Carl Sandburg spoke about.

I’m no John Lennon want to be;

body sculptured David Garrett, German violin masterpiece,

nor Ace Hardware, Midwest, CEO.

All I want to be respected in heart of my bright sun,

engaging these shadows endorsing these gray spots in my life.

Send me away from these drum beats that break me in half,

jungle thunder jolts dislodging my heart

popping my earlobes over the years,

scream out goodbye.

No more stepping on me cockroach style,

swatting me, a captured fly.

 

 

 

 

 

Michael Lee Johnson

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois.  Mr. Johnson published in more than 989 publications, his poems have appeared in 34 countries, he edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites.  Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL, nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/and 2 Best of the Net 2017.  He also has 138 poetry videos on Youtube. He is the Editor-in-chief of the anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze and Editor-in-chief of a second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses.

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