Michael Lee Johnson

by Horror Sleaze Trash on August 29, 2017

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and USA citizen. Today he is a poet, editor, publisher, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois.  He has been published in more than 930 small press magazines in 33 different countries or republics, and he edits 10 poetry sites.  Author’s website http://poetryman.mysite.com/Michael is the author of The Lost American:  From Exile to Freedom (136 page book) ISBN:  978-0-595-46091-5, several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.  He also has over 134 poetry videos on YouTube as of 2015:  https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos  Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015 & Best of the Net 2016.  Visit his Facebook Poetry Group and join https://www.facebook.com/groups/807679459328998/  He is also the editor/publisher of anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762  A second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses, Editor Michael Lee Johnson, is now available here:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089

 


 

Reincarnation (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

Next life I will be a little higher on the pecking order.

No longer a dishwasher at the House of Pancakes,

or Ricky’s All Day Grill, or Sunday night small dog thief.

I will evolve into the Prince of Bullfrogs, crickets don’t bother,

swamp flies don’t bother me-I eat them.  Alligators I avoid.

I urinate on lily pads mate across borders, continents at will.

Someone else from India can wash my dishes locally for me.

Forward all complaints to that religious office of Indian affairs.

 

 


 

 

Detective Poetic Johnson Here

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

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 (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

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.

 

 


 

 

Day Time Bitch & Nighttime Whore (2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

Fern Dickson life untrue to her marital vows, peachy,

what did you expect from the Indiana Rockville whore?

Daddy was welder man, sweat, bleeder bending

over hot steel rolls all day, he was a verb man,

Oliver farmer, noun, welder machine man.

Fern Dickson was a sneak out the door whore, peachy,

2:30 pm. daily was her homemaker check out time.

Waddling penguin style down to Kubiak’s bar

to write her own mystery novel.

Demolition of their marriage, started with table hopping at the bar,

peachy, free drinks and a celebration of wholesale sex.

Narrative, family circles and circuses run in the gypsies of whores,

daddy dog, dancing sin, with the Rockville whore.

Daddy comes home from work,

angered at the burned potato fries,

cold Sauerkraut, Bush’s fresh out of the can, 

maple cured baked beans, cold Cole Slaw, A&P grocery store.

Narrative, old prostitute whore habits die-hard.

Coon hunting, fox hunting daddy, I’m the storyteller

of this Rockville, Indiana whore.

Her brass tits suck then stuck in the mouths of strangers at the local bar, peachy.

Fern has no regular job, bar hopping, table jumping,

became her unemployment check, salary, entertainment and career, peachy.

This cemetery now is Archangel Lucifer, secretary, note taker

for the Rockville whore.

 


 

 

Children in the Sky (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

There is a full moon,

distant in this sky tonight,

 

Gray planets planted

on an aging white, face.

 

Children, living and dead,

love the moon with small hearts.

 

Those in heaven already take gold thread,

drop the moon down for us all to see.

 

Those alive with us, look out their

bedroom windows tonight,

we smile, then prayers, then sleep.

 

 


 

 

Lilly, Lonely Trailer Prostitute (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

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.

 

 
 

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