Bob Dylan.

A mystic creature.
Punching out holes in norms.
Eating the questions then vomiting them back up.
Leaving them worn.
Poet minded.
Speaking the real.
And creating anything kicking till it’s sore.




Garrett Johnson.

Steel tremolo.

Rising in an electric fire.
Casted on all sides.
Contiguous.
Spiraling down to agony.
Waiting at the bottom.
It sings in cute melodies and drifts into slumber.



Garrett Johnson.

Alacrity skies.

Sailing slow on tan sands.
Knowing this is nowhere.
But everywhere next to me.
To keep me company.
Parade fires in a phantom night.
Crowned love beating all.
Only act existing.
Guitars.
Drums wailing proudly.
Mountains greeting the stars.
With shelter under swaying pines.
Lasting only for the night.
Only for the night.



Garrett Johnson.

I’m gone.

Cured in an alley.
Forgotten by the walls.
Greeted by neon hands.
Seared into the corners.
The ash dances like whirlwinds.
Meeting every beat to an azure strum.
And a calm kiss under the clear night.



Garrett Johnson.

Earthly blood.

Pushing.
Left inside the crimson.
Ton of
Thorn.
Like the village where we came from.
Green.
Itching.
Dust on the self.
Dust on the shelf where Frida Kahlo stood.
Dust standing dance.
Dust for your health.
And flowers for the some to die.
Just like how I should.




Garrett Johnson.

A complete unknown.

There it goes again.
Dripping.
Sticking to the walls.
The halls floating with tranquility flowing down.
Silver us.
Silver them.
No good.
Trying.
To be anything that isn’t.
Holding worn ***** boots.
Still.
Holding smoke.
Fingers woven.
Never mind.
It’s too late.



Garrett Johnson.

Flying and fine hours.

I see you looking here.
I see the shapes.
The colors.
That primeval smile.
For centuries I’ve seen that dance.
For seconds I felt the chills from that sound of.
Hello.




Garrett Johnson.