Five Poems by Michael Lee Johnson

Downers Grove, Illinois

I Feel Lightning in Your Wind 
Michael Lee Johnson
 
I feel light in a thunderstorm.
I electrify your touch through my veins.
I’m the greenery around your life 
that breathes your earth into your lungs.
I challenge all your false decisions and doctrines
with the glory of my godliness. 
I’m your syntax, your stoic,
your ears, your prize.
I walk daylight into your morning breath
allow you to breathe.
I let the technique of me into your brain cells;
from the top tip to the bottom
of small baby foot extensions.
I’m the banquet hall of all
your joys, damnation;
your curses, your emotions—
and you’re breathing with the wind.
 
*This poem converted into a song:

Poet In an Empty Bottle

By Michael Lee Johnson I'm a poet who drinks only red wine. When inebriated with earthly delusion and desire, I crawl inside this empty bottle of 19 Crimes Red Wine, lone wolf, no rehab needed, just confined. Here, behind brown tinted glass and a hint of red stain, I can harm no one— body squeezed in so tight, blowing bubbles, hidden, squirming, can't leap out. My words echo chamber, reverberating back into my tinnitus ears. I forage for words. Search for novel incentives. But the harvest is pencil-thin the frontal cortex shrinks and turns gray. Come live with me in my dotage. There are few rewards. My old egg-beater brain is clunking out. I lay here, peace and quiet in prayer. I can hardly breathe in thin air. I'm a symbol of legacy crumbing stored in formaldehyde. Memories here are likely just puny, weak synapses. "I'm not afraid of death, I just don't want to be here when it happens." Looking out, others looking in at me. Curved glass is a new world intangible dimly defined. I no longer care about cyberspace, uncultivated wild women, the holy grail of matrimony. I likely will never write my first sonnet with angels; I only fantasize about them in dreams. Quiet in osteoarthritis pain is this poet who only drinks 19 Crimes Red Wine. *Quote by Woody Allen.

April Winds

By Michael Lee Johnson April winds persist in doing charity work early elbowing right to left their way through these willow trees branches melting reminiscences of winter remnants off my condo roof no snow crystals sprinkle in drops over my balcony deck. Canadian geese wait impatiently for their spring feeding on the oozy ground below. These silent sounds except for the roar of laughter those April winds— geese hear nothing no droppings from the balcony— no seeds. Down by the Bridge By Michael Lee Johnson I’m the magic moment on magic mushrooms $10 a gram, amphetamines, heroin for less. Homeless, happy, Walmart discarded pillow found in a puddle with a reflection, down and dirty in the rain—down by the bridge. Old street-time lover, I found the old bone man we share. I’m in my butt-stink underwear, bra torn apart, pants worn out, and holes in all the wrong places. In the Chicago River, a free washing machine. Flipped out on Lucifer’s nighttime journey, Night Train Express, bum wine, smooth as sandpaper, 17.5 % alcohol by volume $5.56— my boozer, hobo specialty wrapped in a brown bag. Straight down the hatch, negative memories expire. Daytime job, panhandling, shoplifting, Family Dollar store. Salvation Army as an option. My prayers. I’ve done both. Chicago River sounds, stone, pebble sand, and small dead carp float by. My cardboard bed box is broken down, a mattress of angel fluff, magic mushrooms seep into my stupor— blocking out clicking of street parking meters. I see Jesus passing by on a pontoon boat— down by the river, down by my bridge.