Tuesday, September 8, 2009

3 Poems by Garrett Johnson

“Electric Heat: Hat Rack by Winter’s Door”

Might start to see the unearthed,
the shackles that show when
some upright stance wakes up
and nothing but grey streamers drag in Following.

Might start to quiver, but not dead and not even.
The shackles are what you want to be a mirage.
Morning comes, brings a torch that shines a light
to a carpet of astronomy where the planets are dilated-
here, facades are only sleeping soundly in the basement.

You found pleasure swinging between branches
of the most unkempt and spiky nests-
it vomits all on all of the screen doors,
until you know where the smell takes you.

Glaciers where you can't see the humans.
But now there is a point at which
a finger can touch
an actual chin, an actual shoulder.
Mustn't leave this place, this once-known now in the re-making.

You, aboard the crest of alcoves.
You may have uncorked the nook.

“Counting Blessings”

Counting blessings by the metallic fireside,
down, down,
a motor stranded on a desert island
desires fruition and multiplies
by foam and barnacle

and wrappers swept away by fish.
We look under the sea
and find a large being asleep,
cradled in a cold band of amber needles,
suspended just a few feet above the floor
of this body of water,

and we count our blessings
in the pent up cameras
and monikers of wrappers swept away by fish.

An answer becomes an imprint
in the idle embassy, a portrait made to be cast underneath

morphing shields.

“Furnace Prayer”

He who searches for what is not lost yearns to kiss the napes of the nameless, only to find that they are torn just like he is, and their names are embroidered in gold beyond trees and lines.

Silence is restored through what may not just be mere politeness, and dialogue, which is usually the sanctuary of circles, turns out to be a diagonal line. The lightning bolt of love becomes imprisoned in a comfort not known to bestial indifference. Nameless deeds become imprisoned the hierarchy of odds, maneuvered in seemingly desolate areas.

Oasis, I escape you in favor of a trance, and without time you become a rock to carry on the shoulder, never straying from the skin, and with that I feel a wholeness.

To which I reply, "effaces cleanliness."

How dare I retaliate with a useless word, but feeling like the straw is hatched and there is only time to win, I count the minutes and patiently sit by the furnace. My heart goes out to you, oh achiever of namesake, for the bearing of suffering does not include death.

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