Point of no return.

He had caught my eye with absurdity.
Carrying a coagulation of Red Apple, Marlboro, Capri, and Dunhill cigarettes.
All in one pack tucked up under his arm sleeve.
Like some ancient greaser lost from his own time.
Stuck fumbling with the fast paced problems of modern day reality.
Confused with utmost certainty that he had lost his way.
And found himself in this new era.
Error to his own brain cells.
Firing on all cylinders.
Trying to keep him awake.
Just to reach help by the time the sun went down.
But he had caught something else in his view.
A girl.
With a yellow and white striped shirt.
Tucked in to her pants that were up to her waist.
A medium sized pocket above her left breast where she kept her cigarettes.
All white converse with white socks.
Slightly curled mid neck length hair.
She carries herself with uncertainty.
But also with grace and passion.
She sees into him as if he is ghostly.
For he is ghostly.
Only a shimmer of a past presents.
That onced lived in a state of mind that had purpose.

Garrett Johnson.

Overbite.

Done with.
Waiting to pass.
Lay with me.
Scared.
Afraid to ask.
The infinite length.
Cut.
Stop.
Roll credits.
The endless want, to ask.
Her.
Statement after statement.
After Statement.
Afterthought.
An afterthought situation.
Circling vibrations.
Down on acid trips through the air.
Walking through the north country fair.
The tooth finder.
Truthfinder.
Shriveled.
We’re almost there.
Only perspective.
She has my attention.
She always had my attention.
Let these words rest.
They’re running on fumes.
And old oil lamps.
Walking down alley in.
Seattle.
A lake appears.
The open of a realm has neared.
On the corner of dazed and confused.
Bohemia.
Girls with wavy shirts and sweaters.
Cloth tribs.
Peace with each other and themselves.
****.
I’m alone once more.
All day.
The in and outs.
The come and goers.
Nothing new.
Puzzle pieces.
Beaded necklaces.
Pine tea.
Chopped wood.
All alone with my cigarette for company.


Garrett Johnson.

When you’ve taken too much mescaline, but stop and think maybe just a little bit more.

Too much info he says.
Too little time.
Too many lines to look over.
Why so much tobacco he says.
Why can’t you stay with us forever they think, feel, and express through all the other emotions.
How bout ya ******* and leave me to my coffee I say.
It’s 3:25 in the morning. I’ve been up to finish a piece about the new development of the “NEXT” atom bomb. The process is heavy but, with the strict drug regimen to give me the somewhat energy to keep my brain kicking I think I can finish it.
Why can’t I just live for once.
Questions.
Questions that cannot be saved for the genocide they take place in.
Overused and over ridden for lost hopes and chances to become anew.
But when you take 5 times too much of peyote, and you start tasting the color yellow.
You then start to think if you'll ever get out.
If you'll ever find the cure for the satanic mess that's occurring on the inside.
Inside the abomination that has crept up the back streets of synapses.
Utterly grooving to the sound of “Like A Rolling Stone” By Bob Dylan.
Sidewalk.
Overpass.
Flag.
Café.
Drink.
This drink sits badly.
Acid.
Flying over melting mountains.
Shimmer.
Swimming through suburbs of death.

Garrett Johnson.

Raising hell on the inside.

Languid surfing waves in village company.
Sifting.
Locks on intimate encounters.
Terrified.
Stupefied.
As if she said everything just to make me happy.
I couldn’t be.
Not really.
I didn’t speak.
Only stare at the curves of her lips.
Leaving myself to come up with all the details.
In my mind to conjure the cure to my own loneliness.
Or wander aimlessly.
All along the streets.
Gutters of city outskirts.
Town air clears the lungs.
Despair around every corner.
Lurking like the creature from the black lagoon.
I’m Travis Bickle in my world of all things.
Lonely.
I’ve given up all my possessions.
I’ve moved into run down van that has one headlight.
Half a bumper.
And great steering.
I’ve thrown out all my furniture and have ****** in the street along with all the other materialistic things in my life.
I can’t stand waking up in the morning and seeing myself loath in my troubles.
I can ******* own stress come pouring out of the pores of my ******* skin.
But it all reminds me of the true reminder of my future.
THAT I’M GOING TO die.

Garrett Johnson

For leaving me waiting in this chair that only has a lifetime of experience.
And only a thousand secrets to keep.
To keep those waiting.
Waiting to be existing.
Thanks for that.
I’ll let my friend know that he made a friend.
And that he made a mistake on mistakes that made him mistake me for fool.
Well I am a fool.
I’m a fool for waitin’ for you.
I’m a fool for waitin’ On me waitin’ for you.
I’m a little bit tired.
I’m a little woozy from all the waiting for these drugs to kick in.
Ask me a question.
I’ll give you the names of all my excuses for not wanting to wait for you.
Not wanting to wait for me to wait for you.
Not wanting to take this here paper corner and stab my eye ball for waiting for you.
Don’t know if I mentioned this.
But I’m a little bit tired.
Tired of arguing with myself.
Yelling.
Fighting.
Screaming at myself for Not wanting to talk.
But who wants to listen.
The only people that want to listen are the folks that are tired of listening to themselves.
Well.
I guess that some of the folks  that want listen.
Actually do want to listen.
Want to hear something new for a change.
Want to take a break from all the breaks that they already have taken.
Something like that I guess.
I’m gonna get me a new me.
And I’m gonna use him.


Garrett Johnson.

Wired into a trip.
That was the fatal trip.
Around consciousness
Giving a thought to the hook realities that were lying
For all the people who took acid.
Who buy Peace and Understanding for loss and failure
What took down illusion of a whole life-style.
Create a generation of seekers who understood the Culture.
Desperate assumption tending the end of the tunnel.
The continuous evolution of human emptiness.
The relapse of a civilization under rubble from the world that crashed down around them.
Falling in a well of colored rain.
Charcoal drawings on the well walls.
Floating to the top of the bridge.
The bridge of ash that sunk to the depths of less than want.
The hate of people that kick the **** out of the caves of the structure inside.
Decisions of the inner phantom.
The inner exhibit.
Execution of the alienessness.
Paint the peace with ash leaves.
Then end up in Woody Creek.


Garrett Johnson.

Sold paintings.
Sold for nonsense.
***** armchair leg.
Reclusive.
Brought down.
Like they do to most of them.
Blood drop *******.
Raining cigarettes.
On empty dance floor.
We sway.
Too many circles.
Back facing gutter.
Las vegas strip.
Back of cotton field.
Frenzy doing ******.
Oh! My heroine has come to save me from this flash of darkness.
Take away.
Hand it back.
Back of neck.
Saying kiss here.
No promises.
No beginnings.
No real feelings.
Only travel.
Hand-me down emptiness.
SIlver shoe.
Print off.
High two.
To infinity and stop right there.
Splinter.
Plastic watch.
Scotland.
Mireland.
Sinking.
Sprite pop.
Soda tone.
Out of paint.
Quiet please.
I can hear my thoughts.
Don’t be a square.
Welcome to the fair.
Do you have some tape.
Laughter leads to crying.
Crying leads to smiling.
The perfect circle.


Garrett Johnson.