There is a poem in my heart a stop-gap love that cancels the chamber beats. I can’t dismiss the cane I walk with or the heavy, pounding heart, missing breath. There are prayers of my past etched in abuse that I delete pictures about— my brain recycles ruminations. I can’t delete beats or add them. I’m waiting for the final fall— when the gym whistle around my neck from grade 8 basketball class squeals out an Amber Alert for a dying old man.
They say I’m a poet, a word dabbler dripping sap from an old maple tree— tin can worshiper catching leftover sins. I face the world left, head-on. A shot of cheap vodka drained from an 80 Proof-1.75 Liter— lemon and lime juice mixed in reminds me of Charles Bukowski’s mic and desk beers lined up for consumption elongated in order, on the table— those L.A. Street whores, bitches, fantasies of men past 60.
I can’t delete past swear words, rearrange old events, distinguish melody from harmony notes at the Symphony Orchestra echoes of poor past performances.
Let me gamble what’s left: aces, spades. Joker is bankrupt, my crucified self. Silence over spoken reflects quietness nibbling of self.
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 313 plus YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 46 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 7 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 553 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/
Radio? Radio! News cast, a lure a hook, whether I should or should not.
These days are cold; nights hot, a conformity desert for the song and the city, no end probable. News may never stop but there is control — pop news for pop people with pop tastes — thought control… Individual termination, a politics of fashion to be worn, warned, or discarded…
All census and no report.
ii)
Have a pleasant evening? … As I am ordered then to do.
A-ha! So clumsy. A-ha! So deafened… A night of firsts.
I know what I am doing: not enough, no — not enough. Everyone is beyond, out of range of vision and “vulnerable” bites.
Everytime I see that wall of brick, I see a wall of brick. The window panes insult me like the bird.
… Please don’t kill what makes “me”.
iii)
Gasp from my tears, hide in the blatant, safe in the open. Every society needs their bastard like in their stories I disbelieve.
I am forced to look behind all masks because they are there. Most masks smile: those who donned them deaden.
Lit with awe and wonderment this night, a suspect am I. All ways in ways no more I will see what is left to be done.
Look beyond the rags on that fence. I will say hello… And scare you.
The voice on the radio stutters.
iv.)
Us us, or them them?
Some point in argument, all that sustains the pop plan leads me lost, rules my ruin — the propaganda of sticks! All as one is strength is not when one is one and knows, when everyone is aware as merely a one there can be no bundling, no propaganda of sticks.
Too much is too little. The majority are tight. The societal common stagnates — so many creative ways to be imprisoned by the imprisoned.
v.)
Shown the starkness of being, awareness creeps that the average are sold the gain of strength through conformity. They are to aspire to be a part, a piece, never a whole, no self in a part, in a piece.
The powers devised a plan that all should be unaware in a swarm’s instinct.
Am not weak — am not apathetic. They hate, so hate themselves, fight and struggle — stare with eyes growing weaker at such sights.
vi.)
“So, you think you’re special, huh?” … No. I just have my differences.
“So is that what makes you think you’re so special, then?” … No. You just seem to have known no one different than you or your belief and ways. I do not share your beliefs. I do not share your ways. I am no more; I am no less.
“Not being too elitist are you?”
The voice on the radio changes.
vii.)
No clear patterns have emerged as to who as a rule will succumb to individuality or of awareness nearly individual; freedom is myriad.
Conformists have died on their coffee break. Conformists have died during coroner inquests. Conformists have pulled party lines too hardline. Conformists have died live and on the air.
They are they and I am a man out of room. They cannot break what has been broken, an attracted stare that will not undress just any woman.
viii.)
Listen! An underscored symphony.
A lot of time is spent out of room. Firsts are reluctant; to fight for. The thinker must fight to think and to practice the thought.
If the room was my mind I would arrange my thoughts felt physically, to be the scene — would be the centre of it intricate.
In this place when one leaves one leaves with them, and everyone is there as bereavement clashes.
ix.)
The place is bleak cold and dark; most endangered are the naked in the rain. No security, no shelter. Fear makes it darken, sends you deeper, clutching the broken.
Be adrift in the cinema of the soul. Sordid corners, eMpTyVision, satisfaction is not mine; performance is not yours.
Let go — all this time. All this pain — too long. Stay not still. Century to century. Fire. Murder. Wheel. Moon.
David Alec Knight grew up in Chatham, Ontario, Canada. In 2021, David was recipient of The Ted Plantos Memorial Award for Poetry. His first book of poetry, The
Heart Is A Hollow Organ, soon followed. His second book of poetry, LEPER MOSH, was published by Cajun Mutt Press in 2022. It featured his artwork on the cover, combining his interest in art with his writing.
Recent works have appeared in Verse Afire, Night Owl Narrative, and Medusa’s Kitchen. Anthology appearances include Poets For Ukraine Volume 1 and Love Lies Bleeding.
David sees dark and light around him in equal measure and explores that in his poetry, whether exploring working class themes, neurodivergence, addiction, urban living in conflict with Nature, and the effects all these things have on relationships.
When I die, I shall go to Heaven. Unless I die On a weekend. In which case, Just leave me At the club Until Monday. Don’t wanna Miss anything.
Always
There’s always The possibility Of what I say Being misinterpreted Or meaning being Misunderstood, Articulation and Rancor being a Regional and social Underlying nuance. It often becomes A necessary Inconvenience to Have to follow-up My rhetoric with Physical action. Whenceforth comes The inability to Clearly understand The intended meaning Of “Are you a natural Moron, or did you take Lessons.”
The Last Pussy
The last pussy I had Came with a jealous Boyfriend and his shotgun. Fortunately, he showed up After I’d left. I didn’t need No confrontation. Snatch Wasn’t all that good anyway. I was just being a gentleman Helping her over the blahs Brought on by too much same. Used to splash tequila on our Dicks while whoring in Mexico. I don’t know if it did any good. I never caught nothin’ but my Runnin’ buddy had to get the Mallet smash to the penis to Break up those painful pustules. Good reason not to share women. I have been thinking of changing My ways and becoming a priest. I have been wondering what the Hell made me even consider that. I know my processor is abnormal. Head scan showed as much. I got Those folds missing on the back Of my brain. Slick like melon. The docs thin it’s bizarre. Me? I’m having another beer.
Daniel S. Irwin resides, for the time being, in the hills of Southern Illinois. Artist, actor (30+ stage plays, over 100 films), writer (work published world-wide), soldier (retired military), scholar (BA, MA, PhD), and holy man (ordained Dudeist priest 2007 – and damned proud of it). To date, seventeen books published (poetry and short stories), most recent book: Still Wanted in France. Latest work can be found on-line in Horror, Sleaze, Trash Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Magazine. The asylum from which he escaped does not want him back…ever.
I bought this Christmas present For the next-door neighbors, Lovely couple. It’s one of those Things two can share. I’m really Hoping they make good use of it. I could leave it on their doorstep Or somewhere on the back porch. If I dared, I’d sneak it in and put it Under their tree like it’s from Santa. I’ll probably just put it in the mail. Fictitious name and return address. Don’t want ’em to know it’s from me. With all their endless fighting and their Complementary totally belligerent Attitudes, I don’t need them thanking Me in person for the butcher knife. Just settle their fuckin’ differences And give us some peace on earth.
Daniel S. Irwin was born, raised, and is back in town at Sparta, Illinois. His card reads: Artist, Actor, Writer, Soldier, Scholar, Priest. He has won awards for his art, acting (over 100 films and 30+ stage productions), writing (nine books and work published in over one hundred magazines and journals world-wide), retired military (Air Force and Army), graduate of Southern Illinois University/Carbondale and has attended four other universities), and is an ordained Dudeist priest with a Ph.D. in Divinity (not bad for a heathen). Once worked as a medic in an institution for the criminally insane…but didn’t notice anything strange about the inmates. Latest on-line work can be found on Horror, Sleaze, Trash Magazine and Beatnik Cowboy. He would love to move back to Europe but fears the plague.
Check out Brother Dan’s permanent AD spots on CMP!
Obstructing, denouncing, dying, impoverished or evil? Hiding oneself and suffering.
The Moon? Brilliant and illuminating … raise one’s clear and unequivocal voice.
Vacuous, fraudulent or devoid of sense? A coffin.
The optimal potential in each emerging moment? Only light … it really is extraordinary, sublime and mindful.
Secrecy, mystery and being obstruse? A shadow – an echo for the purpose of reaching and extending evil … places turbulent, drastic and irritating.
Growing, beginning, preparing or causing genuine emotion, love and reason? Affecting, responsive, perceptive and grateful – institutions to love deeply and rely upon … bewitching, infatuating and charming.
We really compete to invite or to ask thou to become immersed in existence and living.
The Moon? Real.
The universe? Glory and honour – moderate, apt, successful and heartfelt – approaching existence and living.
The Moon? Certainly various aspects braiding, knitting or weaving thou.
The target? The wizardry known as “worthy creativity.”
Douglas Colston has played in Ska bands, picked up university degrees, supported his parents during terminal illnesses, experienced chronic mental and physical illnesses consequential to workplace harassment, married his love, transitioned into Counselling as a vocation, fathered two great children, and had his inheritance embezzled. Now, among other things, he is pursuing a PhD.
