Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, publisher, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 885 small press magazines, in 27 different countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. He has 89 poetry videos on YouTube. He is also the publisher of Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze available on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762
I Regret Grinder, but, No Remorse
I have no regret, no grinder of remorse, nor memory of the dental chair.
I have no feeler of sins lost in sand dust with golden teeth, diamond over lay of lies.
Do not dance, play checkers, between the lines of memory-black/white.
I am a sinner wild with elbow muscle, flex right to left.
Dental floss is my Jesus, purple robe, violent-victim.
The cheeks of God whisper fools of toy tot decay, hanger on a cross-victim.
I was an outcast of hell with flames hanging from my behind.
What age of flowers is a whisper into the colors, fool enamel solid white.
I wild elbows flex from right to left, dental floss violent-victim.
I am owner of the cheeks of sunken bones.
What left is decay open space, mouth, tongue, cavities.
Christ never liked the sound of a drill, only aging of flowers, whispers from toy toots.
Lost in the blur of the blue heron I toss my gambling cards, fold.
Back to the farm fields forever and the sounds of wheat in the wind.
Jesus is the stop point, remorse, joy, where the sounds end.
I am an abstract artist, setting black outline in a dental chair,
false teeth pending white, waiting for second coming.
I am the cut-off ends of yellow lemon,
end cuts off green lime skin and juice
squeezed, mixed with Pure Vitamin crystals
heavy-duty vitamin C, leads me to Christ.
I hang my survival on orange and lime trees.
I cut you with Chicago cutlery knives.
6 ounces of Barton vodka brand a twist of above,
between this night, my thighs, my thoughts
morning is the master of exchanges of fluids myself or others.
Life is a single squeeze both ends of both fruits.
Jerk me hands free top end of a Ball Jar a hinge of plastic.
Bring me to the end of the straw, up/down over again
mix it/mix me to the end of hell.
Old Men Walk Funny
Old men walk funny with shadows eating at their heels.
Pediatric walkers, prostate exams, bend over, and then mostly die.
They grow poor, leave their grocery list at home, and forget their bank account numbers,
dwell whether they wear dentures, uppers or lowers; did they put their underwear on.
They cannot remember where they put their glasses, did they drop their memory on route to some place.
They package old bones, dry dreams; testicles empty, and giggle choking on past sexual fantasies.
Mogen David madness accesses 100 BC concord wine, all remaining parts sit down-
waves go through their brain as if broken cylinders float undefined travelers.
At night, they scream in silent dreams no one else hears, they are flapping of monarch butterfly wings.
Old men walk funny to the barbershop with gray hair, no hair; sagging pants to physical therapy.
They pray for sunflowers above their graves, a plot that bears their name.
They purchase their plots, pennies on a dollar, beggar's price a deceased wife.
Proverb: in the end, everything that is long at one time is now passive, cut short.
Ignore those old moonshiners that walk funny, "they aren't hurting anyone anymore."
Cut Through Thickness (V2)
I angle at your youth and cross my eyes to see reality of time passed.
I cut through thickness of you retina, thin splinters, raw oak from the North,
Cypress trees, bending, rebel in Southern ways.
My present and past tenses are confused with feelings.
I cross the border of knowing you and forced to retreat.
I am seasoning of salt, pepper, and sugar in your veins.
I am daddy tenderness long time gone memories, graveyard, and suppressed images.
I squeeze scars, raw pimples, Clearasil, alcohol masking, blend in hate cosmetics.
Jesus is a forgiving hallo symbol hanging over a cross.
I hang alligator skins on the shells of Saturn and Apollo.
I lift the Vertical Assembly Building over a trailer sky.
I launch pad of love, a missile, old time arrow direct to hearts.
Every time I feel like crying, Bob Dylan, ages, angels with a handful of tears.
An interesting site to check out: