Tracing your own crime scene...p.s you did it.

It’s pretty clear to turn tail and run.
When you’re on top of the world like Al Jolson.
And then crash like Syd Barrett.
Yelling at the clone on the wall.
“******* SWINE...HOW COULD YOU!?”.
IDiot.
The tub water has drowned the floor.
You’re long gone with golden hair.
Taking all the acid tabs, mescaline, ether, bloodleaf letters, and the small bottle of goldbond lotion.
“How dare you” I ask.
Coursing with enraged grief.
I feel it; the intense measure if deterioration.
Taking its time skipping along side the sounds of Octopus by the man himself.
All while you melt into the typewriter’s ink.
Unable to walk as you would fall into the infinite muck.
“How do you leave” you ask.
“HANG IN THERE!” I yell.
Why I am I yelling.
I didn’t think this was a side effect.
I can hear just fine.
“****! Who turned off the lights!?”.
“Buddy! You gotta leave now” someone behind me gracefully said.
“What do mean, I just got here!”.
“Feller, you’ve been here for about five hours now, and I think it’s best if you went home”.
MY GOD!.
How long was I in that terribly fascinating state.
What had gone on was to be decided by for the entire variety of the heavy drugs that were seducing the situation.
Why didn’t they kick me out in the first ten minutes I was there.
There must of been a slow start...Then sped up near the end.
But how the hell would I know.
I was told I had been there for five hours and counting.
When I thought I had just sat down from taking a ****.
“Jerry, How are you?”. I asked.
.
.
.
“That’s for you to decide, man”



Garrett Johnson.

Layamon.

Monday morning- A SMoke. Walk. An d music.
Tuesday morning- Love. acid. Walk. music.
Wednesday morning- Watch Taxi driver. Watch Inherent vice. SMoke.
Thursday morning- Grateful Dead. flowers. Flowing. Melting mountains.
Friday morning- Ether. Die. Die. Die. Dead.
Saturday morning- Reanimate. Smoke. Write.
Sunday morning- write. Write. Write about writing. Write.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.




Garrett JOhnson.

Bowl of cereal recipes.

Frankly disturbing.
Teal corner ****** for peace.
Lady has the almond lock.
Swinging with Seattle blobs.

Blue breeze water vitamins.
Sings the scarecrow respite.
The proctor's and doctors went sailing.
Peeling off in ghost tar.
Kissed her acid lips.

Rain down in Creek of flower sauce.
Effecting moon riffs.
Nicely cooked accustic stocks.
Lay out on pool table.
Hug.

Shinny light bulb eye.
Caressing stretching zero water line.
Rubber backwoods chair.
Staging a string serpent drug haze.
And all staggered over paper crime.

Garrett Johnson.

No directions.

Travel down this here icy river.
Sleep in the car.
Catch a cold.
Burn parallel sticks of cancer.
Back against cold bark.
Lack of confidence.
Black sweater.
She forgot to progress.
Her story was nice.
Dark pine.
It’s getting dark outside.
It’s too good inside.
Buried fire letters.
They were never sent.
I’ll get out of here soon.
Washington county.
Pyro slugs.
All caught up in tear sleeves.
I’ll help your helping hand.
No help here.
The world made cones are my saviors.
Your neon wounds have been saved.
Helping paper cup.
Your friendly neighborhood razor cuts.
Hands grasping forest side.
I’ll forever.
Be by your side.


Garrett Johnson.

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.