1:40.

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




Garrett Johnson.

7:30.

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



Garrett Johnson.

Above in Maroon.

Pond.
Suffer numb.
Hurry.
Sick of.
Sicko.
Sewing grass into clothes.
Glitter for the sleep.
Eyeshadow and weep.
From Let her dance to Wanna be sedated.


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.

A complete unknown.

Going down 120th in one of the classics.
Passing a ******* barrel on this slighted Sunday afternoon.
With a tub of acid heating up on the dash.
Dylan's "Like a rolling Stone" playing loud and Ruthless.
A mind filled with a heavy buzz.
No lying.
No harm or ill flying around.
Only the road.
Defying all the unknown that's abound.


Garrett Johnson.

A cup of such and such.

Mental explode.
Through candle light sufferance.
A tremolo remembrance.
Gentle across the face.
Drowsy.
A sigh.
Though in hue so perfect.


Garrett Johnson.

A dream I think.

Out of the car.
Up the stairs.
Inside.
Walk around.
There she is.
Talk a min.
Follow.
Get lost.
For even longer.
Been found.
Found a way
Pinkie promise.
For a song.


Garrett Johnson.

Airplane cig.

You look at her.
Who looks at you.
Who looks at him.
Looking at his drink.
But also looks at you.
Then looks at you again.
You then look at her.
Who looks you.
Who looks at her.
Who looks at you.
Who is looking at her shirt.
Who thinks you like her shirt.
Which you do.
And her.
Who looks at you.
And smiles.



Garrett Johnson.

A Kerouac Afternoon.

Penniless on a traded lie for a life.
Finally found in a hazel eye.
Walking around in the finest sky of nowhere.
An afternoon of series after series.
After serious reasons of grief.
Get a grip, man.
Out and displaced.
Creek.
Lying in mud.
More comfort when the blood settles at the bottom.
Old and torn.
Beat up some wolves.
Crawled while crying to my hole in the river.
One with the fishes.
And other earthly fuel.



Garrett Johnson.

Akira forest combined.

Voice.
Boxes, orange.
For subtle change in blush.
Nothing.
Really. . . chilling Michael.
Pineapple and say hello.
Yellow on the shirt.
Napkin brain.
Right em down.
Defective poems and it's all fine.
It's all fine.
I'm sure.


Garrett Johnson.

For Awkward insight.

Why are you standing there?
Well I thought I'd show you my record collection.
Oh, cool.
Do you like... um The Beach Boys?
Yeah.
Do you like... Grateful Dead.
Mm Yeah.
Do you like Dylan or Jefferson Airplane?
Yeah, sure.
.
.
******, man!
You did again.
You took too much!
You took too much.


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.

A little, but it helps.

Are we thrilled?.?
Rid of any happiness in hands. Gripping onto eyes much tired, they throw up.
All given in rain soaked ideas.
& pleased to see the cigarettes sitting there in your shirt pocket.
Doesn't mean anything.

Garrett Johnson.

A little grey.

Why.
Don't shut it out.
If feels of eternity.
Again n again.
The grooves.
From the hips.
Left still.
In vigorous thought.
Around the eyes.
Around it all.


Garrett Johnson.

All the way there.

60 down the main road.
Throw it all away.
Tossed in the wind like a bag.
And hovers away like the smoke from a cigarette.
The whole lot of  1,304 miles of bliss.
And find that someone that's groovy enough to groove with you.
All the way there.

Alone, with nowhere wondering

When back in Hawaii, I feel it better with you.
North of the Eggs 'n things where I puked.
The grass could be so darndest. Smiling only to attract the bugs.
Just because & only then...Could you smile.
The leaves smacking air into my lungs or was it the hybrid, that lept with such oomph.
Looking at my shoelace until It's been a while.
Cig running ruin into brain, counting looks at your hand.
& I, without a plan.
Sometimes you spoke.
Of dreams rampant, organs bearable in confusion.
I only wanted to say hello.
Standing on the stern, peering out over harbor.
Getting closer even though You knew.
Through trees, peering into your eyes & much colors that never threw...concern.
Just Closed.
& fine.
As if the the view of you At North shore anew.
Never arrived

Garrett Johnson.

Al Petroleum.

Fazing in n out.
The flicker.
The whisper.
She's here.
You took too much man.
You took too much.
Who said that.


Garrett Johnson.

A Neon Paris.

Here they come.
Here they are.
Again.
Those thoughts.
Worming themselves into the forefront.
Nesseling in the cold.
Black.
Corners of my brain.
Why won’t it stop.
Why can’t they learn to stop.
Like stranded in a sand sea.
They search.
Search.
Search.
And keep searching.
For what.
Some one.
Some place.
SOme taste, or color.
Some feeling.
Lost.
Some thing.
Anything.




Garrett Johnson.

Angular relapse.

Like a tongue on a hot pipe.
Gets blistered.
Boils in the star in the sky.
And pops.
Pus.
Picking up even the stongest bones crunching.
The whimper.
The moonlight.
The **** in the head that fries.
Pretend to even act.
Like the little voice beating between the ears.
Meaning nothing and everything.
For everyone and Nobody.
But stills crawls.
Back into an acidic center.
Home that could never be home
And flushed into. . . What be formed into silent ends.


Garrett Johnson.

Anyways on the walk to your house.

Twice in the hall.
Lose it.
Felt like permanent.
Scold.
Grass keeps the air cool, like matte.
Perhaps crawl.
So enthralled.
Liking it, lose it all again.
Over.
A corpse chiming with ideas.
Chiming only to finest, hideous.
Hideous.
More hideous.


Garrett Johnson.

Arrive to leave

Salem.
Asylum.
For all.
Reaching.
Frantic.
Friday.
Evening.
Someday.
Antisocial.
Nev­er.
Rush.
Flash.
Such.
Wandering.
Navigating.
Endless.
Vibrant chaos.
Crusading.
Blum.
Continuos.
Relinquish.
Embraced.
Distorti­on
Within.
Grasp
Taunting.
Disappeared.
In agony.
Collection.
Mural.
Saga.
Certain of.
Past.
Parasite
Of waves.
Confined.
Seeking.
Redemption.


Garrett Johnson & Eleesha Mayo.

Ash flower.

Cold showers.
Warm hands.
Everything gone.
tell the self it’s fine.
When it’s not.
I’m not.
But i’m Ok.
Not the only one.
Raining tar.
Running in noire.
Fun times.



Garrett Johnson

Cafes.
And instrumentals.
Corpses filled with ash and syrup.
Syrup made from a hippie that lives in the flat above me.
Never arrives to confuse me.
Amazing relationship.
Contrasts the mask that covers the realness.
The class that helped **** your demons.
And your soul.
Blues.
Reds.
And yellows.
CLouds most things.
Poets dying in eternal Affliction.
Poets who died for nothing.
Beat the poet.
Real mean poet.
Mean everything to the person inside the poet.
You can find it.
You can grow it.
You don’t know it.
Boil it for safety.
Or not.
Blues bleed into the skull.
Carve with the side that’s dull.
We turn sullen.
Create Poetry that never makes us lonely.
And always makes us lonely.
Conniptions replace the complements.
Turn hate into monuments.
And Love into self hate.
It’s gonna be great.
And always be ****.
Learn from the mistakes.
Take your life.
And miss the blade.
Rope.
Bullet.
Psychedelics.
Hallucinogens.
Genetics that makes us break.
Discover the ******* that are fake.
Concentrate.
Contemplate actions.
Rott through the smoke.
Anxious ridden state.
LIke the **** that makes up the rain.
Conceptualize Sound waves.
And destroy your fate.
Make a smiley face.
Then cry.
I like what you’ve done with the place.
Crawl into your own time and space.
Tired.
Overly tired.
It’s the nights like this that are dreadful.
Terribly stagnant..
A magnet to war.
Maggots.
Loath in fractions.
In places.
With no faces.
No patience.
Static.
Just Static.

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.

Begin, become when you take a left.

Feel that's right.
Therapy.
Say that you're alright.
That it's the kind.
Of see through.
Of assuring.
The peace.
Within each other.
Unreal the nervousness.
Crossing legs.
Holding still.
You know.
Filling weariness in the snow.
As it was under that street light.


Garrett Johnson.

Beginning.

The wounds hold in sultry.
The shaman breathes tightly.
With cerulean colored eyes.
A Luscious handle of the old world.
Tired in admiral skies.
The appearance of truth.
Written in scarlet.
The words that heal in time.




Garrett Johnson.

Turn to the Water.
Leaping through the veins of our humanity.
As we fly with fear to the city.
Wallowing in the mud, singing.
******* in the allies.
No privacy here.
Alone in shin high body of infested Fluids.
Above, the others party in the **** night.
Robust and jubilant.
The concrete solidification of our lives.
Living in eternal colors.
Youth crying, laughing.
Crawling over their other half.
Love in mutiny.
Forgotten.
In the summer rain.
Dancing like infants.
Tribal.
The shaman seeks the grass.
He is the portal.
The forgotten mortal.
Of the jade crystals.
Inside he lives in a current.
With his missing part.
Her.
Himself.
The perfect primeval distortion.

****** eyes (the best kind)

Am I the head aches.
Am I the heart racing from the rush.
Am I.
The ****** eyes I received from Kissing her.
Am I.
The ***** that came after the tremolo.
Am I the bullet that almost came.
Am I.
Am I.
So tired.





Garrett Johnson

Blueberry tears.

We saw through the eyes.
The electric highway.
The lips overtone.
The winds.
Celestial.
Neon Bohemia.
Cathartic Breath of air on neck.
The melting of the surface.
Suffice in the face of thee ocean.


Garrett Johnson.

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.

Bouncing light shows.

O.
Ov.
Ove.
Over.
Overd.
Overdr.
Overdri.
Overdriv.
Overd­rive.
Yes.
A little Interstellar Overdrive.



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.

Breast pocket.

Sorry.
Haven’t written in a while.
Scarf drank some bleach.
He said he was fine.
the glue dried up.
But Sarah said she’d go get some new tarps.
Passed out form singing in a river.
Woke up without any legs.
I walked it off.
Till I remembered we have crimson hats and mittens.
It’s cold here at burning man.
Memphis time is the right time to shoot up.
The wires are crossed.
N the surfing is credible.
n I’m going & got tired half way thru this.
                                 Your son that never knew ya.
                                  Lighthouse Bukowski.




Garrett Johnson.

Breeze so lovely.

The chair.
The wall.
The air.
The floor.
Despair.
Nothing more.
The blankets.
The soreness.
The aches.
The blankness.
The wants.
The needs.
Flowers and weeds.
But ******* the breeze is so lovely



Garrett Johnson.

Broke my head stepping on some air.

I knew better.
But I don’t know better.
The sound is always closed off.
But I can hear those thoughts again.
Whispering n screaming.
Then close to a greying calm
Like having a waltzy reaction.
To something good.
Having no place around here.
Leave because I have nothing else to do.
But read and sing in some erratical nervous psychedelia.



Garrett Johnson.

But the sound.

Left stood red on the curb.
He sits.
Reading his epitaphs and choice.
Leeching to his lead.
Pocketed mind inside his fine teeth.
Friends free loading on the 2 cent couch.
Bass played Stuntman Randy.
So the Grooves get the gist.
Guthrie preaching Cosmourn poems.
They feel the nail black.
Lagooned in haled land.
Black eyed and far away from gentle.
Coppered Pirates Poets loving.
Battered.
Laughs the words forming.
Cause back on the streets they are once again.


Garrett Johnson.

Car hood at 1 in the morning.

Sitting at the table.
Quietly.
Smoke rising from the knuckles.
Nicotine masking the scent of oh so wretched tears.
Maddening the area.
The atmosphere.
The uncertain complexity of her flannel shirt layering over the windshield.
Passing all those lovely moments of sharing cigarettes on the car hood at one in the morning.


Garrett Johnson.

Carry me through to.

My friend said he was leaving.
So I said goodbye.
My grandfather was told he was leaving.
So I watched Fred Astaire movies with him.
She said she was leaving and asked If I’d go with her.
So...I did.





Garrett Johnson.

Chair heads.

Took what’s needed.
Burn the wolves.
Like all poems have.



Garrett Johnson.

Clouds on the bedroom floor.

It isn't anything.
Maybe it's everything.
Seeing it all.
The waves.
Midnight.
While you're still here.
Feel like ****.
Pictographs.
Written cloth.
Sidewalk in Perth.
Headphones.
for every reason.


Garrett Johnson.

He stood watching.
From his cool wooden porch.
Groovy as it seemed.
He pays not attention to the half naked girl besides him.
He's quiet.
He lights a smoke.
Blinks his eyes.
He's petrified.
Blinks again.
Looks to the girl.
Gives a light kiss upon her cheek.
He leaves.
Still groovy it seems.
Groovy it is.
Out here.
The beings are calm with ease.
Nothing perfect.
Never perfect.
Nothing, and all to hide.
The fabulous ecstasy glides.
He reaches the beach.
He's stopped.
At the edge he looks down.
reflection inside retrospection.
Inside reflection inside reflection.
Inside reflected reflection.
I would consider that an echo chamber with no sound.
He digs.
He lights a smoke.
Then walks.
I need a new friend.
A shindig around the corner.
Everyone there.
So is the girl.
Break on through she says.
Jeweled lights.
Cloth, and beads.
Waving.
Crying.
Hair hovering.
Feathers.
hands locking.
Rivering through the brain.
Everybody knows yer name.
He's the one to send flowers to all around.
He's you.
Me.
I.
Him.
He lights another smoke, and walks.

Garrett Johnson

Coming around.

Sierra.
With a canvas camera bag.
Too small to fit a world into.
n too big to fit a life into.
Carrying death by the pound.
By the scent of the sky.
By the quid in pocket.
N by the vinyl in the eyes.
N all u can ever do is dance.




Garrett Johnson

Confused in Estes.

Slipping low.
How it felt.
Didn't know.
You're still warm.




Garrett Johnson.

Conversation with some guy.

Have you ever killed anyone.
****, man we're going there already.
Well have you.
Yeah.
Who.
Charlie; in the war, had to **** him with my camera.
Oh, you were a war photographer.
Photographer, journalist, I've been a lot of things.
Are you part of the pine tree communist propaganda team.
Woe man, slow down.
Did you or did you not, meet with the monk of monkies in Massachusetts.
Hey man, your questions are a little too high caliber for my surf board.
I'm just trying to break some new ground here...well, what do you like to do.
Oh you know the casual acid flashbacks, Godzilla showings at the theater, um hanging out with some Samurai Chicks ya know, stuff like that.
Have you ever been to the mountains Mr._ ?
Well there was this one time when I was at this festival in Colorado, and this guy said he was going to hitchhike up to Woody Creek and he asked if any body wanted to join him, so I tagged along, he said his name was Chuck I think, yeah Chuck Manson, he went on about wanting to **** somebody but I didn't really think about it, he did play some music which was really good, it was very soulful.
(A heavy sigh)Can you recall where you were a few hours ago.
I was here.
What do mean you were here.
I've always been here, constructing this reality that you're sitting in right now.
(End Tape)
Goodbye.



Garrett Johnson.

Streets.
Light poles.
Potholes.
Distortion.
Something to be proud of.
Truth to be lies.
Someone.
Please someone.
Standing in back alley.
Collecting runoff water from gutter above.
At 4 it gets dark.
Ride bicycle around.
No one around.
Lay in the street as rain floats to my face from above.
The clouds are strangers.
But the mist has won.
And i’m here all alone.
In the street.
Going past the pop-art store.
The windows turn.
The atoms twist.
My eyes hug the sky.
Wandering the confines of my brain.
Searching.
For her I cannot promise to hide.
And like the calmness over the air.
I fall one again.

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.

Crackling leaves on the walk home.

French hysterics.
Off the deep end in chasm.
Manic.
Sequence fathom through the room light.
Dreadful.
Sarcastic rummaging through cheek bones as papier-meche.
Quiet.
Rubbing eyes.
Folding Sweatshirt to tunneling tunes that keep you alive long enough.


Garrett Johnson.

Crashing on the couch.

You'll find your end.
In the river.
You'll find your end.
In the mountains.
You'll find your end.
In the mirror.
You'll find your end.
Living in your doubt.
Find it.
Now.


Garrett Johnson.

Dissolving and a scarf.

Brought about.
Cyanide.
Where it goes.
Stagger.
Bladder
It hurts.
Like some lead.
On the floor.
With a hope to maybe blink.
Scarlet finish.
Return in ultimate bliss.

Garrett Johnson.

Don’t suspect a thing bud.

Grandma has the soup.
Grandma has the cigarettes.
Grandma has the guns in the shed.
Why the hell would you think that.


Garrett Johnson.