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.

So Close.

You sewed your mouth.
When it rained in your head.
For what it's lived.
& what it's not.
You sickened yourself to stay home
for me.
Come see me.
& lay in this bed.
Your algorithmic speech.
Flaunted.
Sitting sweater.
Tears seducing the *****.
Its dance.
Its cry.
You to be the muse.
You to make the sigh.
Of love & relief.
& with visions so delicate.
& prompted.
You play the strings then slumber.
Kept warm under.
Passing the sound.
Around.
& around it went.
& still goes.




Garrett Johnson.

Transmission teeth.

Down the back loc.
N out the sad top.
Plus one.
& plus two.
Making sad flocks.
Of people.
Screamin’.
& cryin’
And flyin’ about a new world.
One that has fingers in hairdos.
& coffee grounds for *******.
Talking over new vocations.
Guitar strings in heck fire.
Hell fire.
& lava.
Green organs blazing down in ancient rains.



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.

Ok.

I left it there.
N I left it here.
**** Lighthouse Bukowski back at work
I left it on the porch.
Like a hoover vacuum.
****** up into a locker at the metro.
But who gives a ****.
Dylan Thomas never checked in on me.
Why would he do it now.
Lost that ******* hoov.
Like a rustling in a box made out of neon foam.
Lived in that tree for years.




Garrett Johnson.

Eyes are pretty.
Green.
Acoustics.
Why.
Under.
Why am i ******* writing this.
Blankets.
****.
It’s not right.
Wait.
Until I write this.
No need.
Sky lights.
Double back.
For the first time.
In Forever.
Please.
Too much.
Not too much.
Not enough.
Never enough.
No more dreams.
No more drugs.
No more.
Ignore.
Ignorance.
Persistent.
Friend I'm sorry.
Highway.
Drive way.
Lightly.
Highlights.
Highway road lights.
& fog.
Headrest.
Sifting.
Conquest.
Conscious.
No more affection.
No longer intimate.
No longer important.
The writing is no more important than the ground I stand on.
Bleach & paint thinner.
Sadness gets grimmer.
I’m uninvited to my own funeral.
Let the takers flood in.
Let the knowers get drunk.
Let the mental serial killers float about.
& let the plan work with doubt.
Let the Charlie find their way home.
Let the poets go to Rome & drink tea, and whiskey.
Let the skellies run up mountains.
let your nerves wash away in a lake.
& let her kindness melt within what you need to take.
Let go.
Let go.
Let go.

Holly beach crime scene.

In it.
Stopped speaking with words.
Using poems instead.
Like the breeze swaying through the ally to the beach.
Hitting her hair.
Identical.
Like that night in 68.
Where the air cooled on top of the roof.
Where the surfers.
Dopers.
And surf saxers.
Congregated for the haze of a shindig.
And fell into the space and time.
Of love.
Acid.
And continuous sounds of The Doors.



Garrett Johnson.

Hard Rain.

Spheric drops on the glum face of midnight.
Nightly drinks by self.
Self Destructing acidicly.
Dinning.
Dying soldierly.
Strict concentration.
By the tears.
Confused in mirrored shadows.
With a tint of peppermint.
Ease back thy silk collection from face.
Intimate gathered embrace.
Under liquid flow of haze.
Blue in thee.
Eyes in slumber casings.
Alieness mornings in caves.
Tavern moonlight from lamp.
Sideways blankets backwards.
On satin grass of upward walls.
Languid.
Sensitive.
Dreams on clear land.
A lone shelter sits.
Corner dimm’d ***.
Blue salted sands wandered coast.
Turquoise sadness.
Stand on crystal blackness beneath.
Lowest of low.
Valley.
Subatomic chaos.
Within chaos itself.
Ones self to end on a metaphorical sea of clarity.

Crack in the door.

Looking like Apocalypse Now.
He tips his hat.
Reaching to his catacombs.
Why are you here.
Why did you see.
Me.
Who has the fix for you.
& Me.
Disturbingly solemn.
Wearing plaid.
Lips black.
Tar for the door.
Thought of all natural.
That is the thought that counts.
But never accounted for.
Looking in.
To see only a picture.
Of a reel that'll last until I do.



Garrett Johnson.

The end.
A Picture.
In the river of madness.
Silent.
Quiet.
A scene of universe.
Under eyelid.
Of her.
Of them.
Silhouette.
Dancing.
Campfire.
Blood.
Love.
Flatlands.
Prai­ries.
But in the town.
In the city.
We groove.
Subtract from the eye.
We dance close.
And yet so far.
Loose.
Like Greenwich.
We beat.
We float.
She hears the show.
Immaculate.
Showing a her soft side.
Riding through the wind.
Meet with eyes.
Screaming.
That dies.
We can never get enough.

I'll come following you.

The scene obscured by High flyers.
the trains.
the sculking.
the home recordings.
the film.
So roomy.
I can taste the perfume.
leaving in shadow.
left rough.
& in silk.
Acting like we never met.
I still 5 to go.
paid for exclusively.
In drachmae.
& Wheat.
But dance &.
Groove.
So weary.
Like the untested reach.
Of time.
& The never resting beach.




Garrett Johnson.

Fragments of Infinity.

Dabbled in the hill dwellings.
Parades of ******.
Spoons of believe to be.
Sands of purple saturation.
                                                Gone.
Stranded frozen in Greenwich street.
                                                                 Always.
Felt lively.
From grace of lips.
Only wondered.
& pure.
With the revamped spiral of life.
Given memory to moments of intimacy.
Sanctum.
Caught in form.
Of sameness.
And oblivion.




Garrett Johnson.

Dusty Cabinet.

All twisted felt the seasons closing in around.
Warped for the downtown incents.
Just to self destruct at the side of a pine river.
A blue face now a-days.
& a new chest full of fog.
Getting up in a field when you have nothing to own.
Nothing to know.
& No one to call home.
With the only thought of what to do.
Is smile.



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.

Throw jewelry away.
Live in the woods.
Maybe a cabin.
Smoke a cigar every seven days.
Befriend the animals.
Drink moonshine three days a month.
Play the harmonica.
Meet a human in town.
Sing with squirrels.
Make sweaters.
Build a basement.
Hug the trees.
Kiss someone.
Talk to yourself.
Cry on a canoe in the middle of the lake at night.
Listen to Bob Dylan.
Read Poetry By Jim Morrison.
Make arts and craft projects.
Sketch a chair.
Then sit in it.
Play the guitar.
Make a bonfire.
But don’t burn down the trees.
Taste different spices.
Taste other peoples spices.
Sleep on the ground.
Get *****.
Stand out in the rain.
**** your own fears.
Nit blankets.
Save minerals
Smile.
Frown.
Do acid.
Warm up the air.
Shout.
Punch the ground.
Make cereal.
Eat pine cones.
Watch the trees sway.

Sing softly in bed.
Stay in bed.
For you might not see her again.

Poem for something in a different dimension.

Infinite dandruff on the leaf in my soup.
Caught on fire in a concrete water bottle.
Pulling chair.
Woolen eye shut.
The shirt pocket soldiers full of matches.
You say what to the girl.
She says yes.
The coffee club on shoot n up agrees.
Disintegrates into bark.
Stick shoes.
And mossy doors.


Garrett Johnson.

Drabbled permease upon tatters.

Lip bricked.
Eye stabbed.
Flower bucket force.
Trauma to the shoe.
Green paint.
Done with spat face.
                                    Ripped.
                                                  Ran for closure.
****** with.
                       Then after shook the hand.
Cato.
Capo.
3rd fret.
              Be my friend.
                                      Leave me alone.
Don't go.
Just leave.



Garrett Johnson.

Neutrophil Canvas.

Twas like the sea.
Shaking.
But still.
Traced on her face.
Whispering peace.
Slow dancing with breeze.
Adrift.
On the unconscious isle.
Swept through the tunnel of blue.
As if dreamt.
Only refined to contrast.
Remembered as lines on her hands.
& reawakened to be found.
Alone.



Garrett Johnson.

I want to go somewhere no one can find me.
Go somewhere where nothing is defining.
Read and write poetry out loud to or with some one who will actually listen.
Someone who understands.
Do nothing but watch and listen.
Paint our own Jean Michel Basquiat or Jackson ******* paintings while listening to records of all sounds around the world.
Leave the doors open to the surrounding woods.
To the small town down the road a few miles.
Lay on a blanket under some trees.
Plant a tree.
For I feel as if I'm losing my mind cooped up in a room where barely any moonlight could reach me.
I want leave.
Go far away.
Start all over.
But bring her with me.
I'd rather live in Greenwich than live in this suburban masked waste land where parents go to live out the rest of their land lives.
******* any where but here.
*******.
Any where.

Garrett Johnson.

When your gravity fails.

Lost on the texture gun.
The hopper shot Alex again.
Her hair die was acidic.
An I thought I was lost in the rug tree.
My shoes have no use anymore.
Cause I'm gonna get me a new Garrett Johnson and I'm gonna use him.
                                     See you next xmas
                                     Cliff Booth.




Garrett Johnson

Spots.
Magazines.
All I understood was that you’re portuguese.
Blasting sand bags on scuba tunnels.
On the rocks purified.
Mermafied.
Terrified.
Outrageous.
Daily dose of turpentine.
Divided by the news.
Reel.
Real.
And unwind.
Time to take your pills.
I don’t want those pills.
Take you codger pills you old retched.
What.
I’m Dead.
I’ll just have a glass of water.
Oh I’m dead too.
Rows.
Of Rosemary.
Above what stood once before.
Below.
We’re getting lower.
Even.
Lower now.
Try to.
Hold on.
Almost at the.
Bottom.
Of.
The.
P.                            Garrett Johnson.

Polite shadows.

Rocket fuel.
Hello.
I’m ok.
Not really.
But that’s fine.
Not important.
Too important.
Waste away.
Never wasted.
Arm rest.
Too tired.
And a big ******* montage of heck fire.



Garrett Johnson.

Prescription Vinyl Side Affects.

Early morning- Stared too long at myself...in the dark, Drank a glass of what could have been, Watched Fife adventures while painting silhouettes.
Later morning- Started doing mescaline serious.
Evening- Read a book subconsciously, Buried the book outback near the shed, Watched Inherent Vice 7 times in a row, the book was Inherent Vice.
Early night- Drank lots of water, with lemon, drank tea for the cool down.
Late night- Cough drop for the cough, Wrote this, And This, and especially this.




Garrrrett JOhnson. ;)

Night.

This night will be the last night of our lives.
Mother, I'm thirsty.
Role call.
Freeze in the heat.
Waiting for your heart to beat out of your chest.
Moving.
Keep moving until you're out of breath.
Millions of bumps.
Cattle car.
Thoughts of JOY on our fresh new start will last us through the night.
Run.
Run.
Until your bones ache in the sun.
Until your brain overloades with fear.
And your shadow no longer appears.
Cry for your brothers, sisters.
Father's, mother's
Lovers and others.
Cry.
Cry.
For your tears have evaporated into the air with the innocent.
Strip.
Down to your skin.
To the flesh your no longer own.
To the body that holds no hope.
Striped garbs, pants, shirt, jacket.
Rations of black coffee, soup and bread.
Work or crematorium.
Welcome to Auschwitz.


Garrett Johnson.

Hunter Thompson Blues.

Corpse.
One in a black room.
Aoxomoxoa.
Plays again.
And again.
The voices.
The.
Words.
Snap out of it man.
Oh.
What is this.



Garrett Johnson.

Elevator Overdose.

Treble through the fuckery in the wall.
kind.
& Janised.
Low downed in the lowlands.
And perish in the sweet confines of her sweater.
Scented of vanilla and coffee.
Stabbed with marrow being ripped from the spine.
& spiral up to the keeper's song.



Garrett Johnson

Blood from the private places.
No time to talk.
Only lay on the floor in tears.
No strength to get water.
Dive off into a city of lights.
Fade away from the strums of life that moved forward.
Away from the normal things.
We wash down.
Erode.
Or evolve into something more.
And less.
The kids have their friendships and relationships.
Pre-adulthood ***.
While I turn the keys of the world.
Trying to create my own.
No desire for wants.
No real one anyways.
I forgot what another person felt like.
I only sit here to say things because I feel like I have to.
Or maybe because I need to.
Why do we do anything.
Because we can.
I try hard to stop the burning when I close my eyes.
The seas of my priorities make lakes and ponds.
Streams and rivers.
Made the mountains.
The deserts.
The grass and trees.
The worlds beyond my mind.
The touch of skin.
Of a hand, arm or neck.
I don’t think I’ll be here too long.
Not long enough I guess.
For the silence in my ear has faded
Being alone is nothing new
But it’s good to have company.
Good for the soul.
I make my own gravity to pull myself down.
And my own rockets to send me away.
There are no second thoughts.
I wonder if i’ll be missed.
Because the silence in my ear sure won't.

I've been restless.
Torn down.
Ripped from the edge of the universe from which I sat, Looking back out to This great blue rock a-floating and twirling with grace.
Only to that certain eye, could it be satisfied.
I've been shaken loose of my Fantasies.
Those imbecilic thoughts, void of reason or roads.
I have been killed a thousand times in your names, those names.
Crawled across picture-esc landscapes of plastic.
Frontal assault on my character, left blistered by phantom shrapnel, called words.
Shouldn't it be time already?.
Am I ready, already?
Perhaps....Only with ticking of moments shall I find out.

Garrett Johnson.

Sorry For the blood.
It’s wine.
No tears.
Waffles and higher frequencies.
Higher meanings.
Spoiled drinks.
Sink into the rug.
Her presence.
Like a drug.
Walk around.
Insides hurt.
Nervous hands gripping hair.
Schnapps in the air around.
Watch.
Stare into a dark wall.
A dark hall.
Sit.
Quiet.
Silent.
No noise.
Don’t let them hear you.
Why.
You’ll drown.
In.
Stay inside.
It’s dark out there.
Smoke.
Lights.
Take what you can carry.
& Find who you wanna marry.
Too much has been chosen.
Dylan records on queue.
Few becomes less.
A mess becomes more.
A Mold of life.
A cold reporter.
War reporter.
On water works.
Water towers.
Wooden flowers.
Cancel the shindig.
I’m gone.
Tell her i’m wrong.
She was right.
I might just starve.
Out here.
In the wastes.
To the past pace.
Of when time was a place.
With nowhere to go.
No one to be.
No one but myself to impress.
Always.
I’m sleepless.

Age.
Free roaming.
Free foaming at the nose.
Mouth with a miss of courage.
Study hard to keep my position of being the coolest hobo.
I’ll collect your junk/my canvases on Fridays.
Saturdays.
Sundays.
Mondays.
Tuesdays.
And Wednesdays.
Too busy to care.
Too busy to be busy.
Busy feet lead me to some road outside a busy city.
Leading to purity.
Petrified.
Floating over a prairie somewhere in Idaho.
It’s my own private one.
Once in awhile I.
Remember.
Something someone said sometime ago.
I remember it but I don’t.
Not really.
I’ll be back.
Out getting ribs.
I’m back.
My ears hurt.
My ears hurt.
Please stop.
Discrete.
Please keep it this way.


Garrett Johnson.