Feelings at the theater.

Take your life.
Take the soap.
Take the cigarettes.
Take regrets.
Take emotions.
Take the lotion.
Take the gun.
Take the pines.
Take the water.
Burn.



Garrett Johnson.

World.

The Door.
Awakens in the heat.
Of angst.
Discourage.
Rebellion.
High flying.
And uncontrollable control.
The Archimedes of Ignorance.
And the Diogenes of change.



Garrett Johnson.

1:40.

Pulp Fic poster.
Dylan.
Lennon.
Cobain.
Green sticks.
Some smiths.
Hendrix.
Fear and Loathing.
Morrison.
Dig yourself.
A black lagoon.




Garrett Johnson.

Neon Sigma.

Paul Newman took my cool hand.
He said he would double discount down on everything that’s bought Man.







Garrett Johnson.

Oct 15, 66.

One of those nights.
Where the air is slick.
Where everything can be heard from miles away.
Like a tremolo stealthing it’s way around.
From every knock from door.
From every word from lip.
Form every star deciding to die in a super nova.
You know.
Those nights.
Sure I do.
No.
No you don’t.



Garrett Johnson.

7:30.

Foggy portal.
Frozen air.
Swamp carrier.
Solid cinder.
Sleet table.
Holed wall.
Red tomb.
All for nothing.



Garrett Johnson.

Quiet air disintegration.

The clay boy of a first responder.
Pondering along on a long night.
She’s cool in a dolly rocker.
Jeweled blue.
And silent white.




Garrett Johnson.