Michael Lee Johnson, US

 

 

Free Verse   Untitled I Walk (Psychiatric Assessment)   Untitled I walk through life with a shrink from Yugoslavia, whose as large as big foot. With a novel in one hand, and shaking his fingers at me with the other, he wants to control me with a shovel, tie me in knot balls, emotional twisters, and squeeze the emotional pages out of my life like a twisted sponge. I retaliate, control him back, wage war in a vicarious cycle squeeze his testicles like electrical wires inside my mind’s eye, cut his tongue with razors, dull his clinical words. Play his game, only better. He picks up the play phone, threatens to call the police, leashing me in my corner like a trapped dog forces me to bark into submission like a beagle basset bitch. He treats me with word babble. I tell him he is a damn Ukrainian idiot. Peeved off I race to the parking lot, head to the bushes, like a blue racer snake threatened, hop bunny rabbit into my S-10 Chevy pick-up truck, memo pad in hand, scribbling ruminating notes I surrender naked till my next prescription, untitled I walk.     Cinquain   Days Pass   Days pass, Cold is winter, At night birds hide in trees. Doves at bird feeder don’t count days— No cares.     Free Verse   Summer is Dying   Outside summer is dying into fall, blue daddy petunias sprout ears— hear the beginning of night chills. In their yellow window box they cuddle up and fear death together. The balcony’s sliding door is poorly insulated, and a cold draft creeps in all the spare rooms.     South Chicago Night   Night, south Chicago is filled with drifters, sugar rats, street walkers, pick-pockets and pimps, a few whores on 95th street south fill out the night agenda with silent whispers; thousands of tiny fingers of greed snitch dip into pockets other than their own. The night air is full of insects and Lake Michigan perch smells. Ladies diligent in the night, High on the rise of condo balconies and drugs Paint a picture, gesture to strangers on the streets below, “do you want a date?” The neon signs are blinking and half the bulbs are burned out. Mayor daily or is it Daley, is tucked in sleeping blankets tonight in south Bridgeview; while most of the trouble lodges at the Salvation Army where Christ lives with sinners. Parents, despair. Surrender their children for bucks and old silver coins traded earlier at the pawn shop; some drink gut-rot sweet cherry wine and act as slave pushers− but the children continue to roam the streets in designer clothing. Before the warmth of morning sun, lips grin, sidewalks fold turn up and open to foot traffic, the city of Chicago trembles from the taste of delicious dew. Just a map image and picture−frame shadow of the city with the “big shoulders.” Mayor Daily or is it Daley is sleeping and ducked away sound tonight. The big city drifts, and in the morning light, sailboats lean against the side walls of Lake Michigan sand and shoreline.     Saturday Snow Dec. 10-08   Snow Snow more snow on Saturday morning. Cold, very icy. The doves mount on my birdfeeder full of bright golden corn— outside, on the wooden balcony they leave love notes tucked at the foot of my sliding glass doors.       Cut Grass in Snow   All day long night is my storm lantern. I carry it into the farm land cutting into my harvested emotions covered by snow edging them in half in front of me see me open and bleeding. I’m seeded like a small orange pit me out and devour me spit the pulp and seed I step on the jagged edges of my feelings and sense my pain cut stretched skin with glass shavings torture under toes hurt badly with pain. Pitch the stuff with damn black top if it makes you feel relieved. Don't laugh at me like a circus clown I'm 61 and my dimples show smiles and crinkles. This day is a lawn mover even in December when machinery is to be shacked up and covered. I plow beneath the white surface cut rotten leaves beneath settled snow. The aggravation, the cultivation the nonsense of hell with a runny nose. In spring the grass never pops up right. All day, night is my storm lantern.