Goodbye.

Fall.
Sidewalk.
Streetlamp.
Hands held.
Old leaves.
New sounds.
I fell.
In.
Those eyes.
Those eyes.
Those eyes.



Garrett Johnson

A Winter of Sleep
 
Like a standing-by tribe of leafless birch trees,
My solitude remains entrenched on this Idaho frozen land.
This alluring land of uncompromising sinuos snowed hills.
My bed to rest.
The unyielding beauty of big sapphire blue skies.
A solid promise for hope to come. 
But I remain still. 
Deep sleep sounds so nice. 
 
Yes, in this land I hibernate in unseen caves of my own carved memories.
Yet, my faithful sun always shines. 
A reminder of his eternal promise.
To daily rise.
To daily shine.
To daily warm. 
 
Until then, my wintered solitude remains still.
Like birch trees waiting for the golden leaves to come,
I wait.
I’m not afraid.
I remain still.
Until then, deep sleep sounds do nice.

Alcohol
Cigarettes
And every thought of you.

Little bits of me
Constantly searching
For little bits of you
In every set of lips
I kiss.

She sends me snippets of her body in photographs. If I was meant to forget her then why would she torture me so? Her hands and her hair. Her eyes and neck and lips. So vivid in a glimpse, I can taste her. Not so innocent when she's unzipping her top in this shot. Not so sweet as she sends me her bare hips.
Photographs.
Are such.
A tease.

You visited me
And you asked me if
He holds me.

The way what you hold me.
"No."

And you came to me
And you asked me if
He craves me.

The way that you crave me.
"No."

No. No. No.

I could fill my gut
With "No."
Where you are "Yes."

I could live in your arms
I could feed off your passion
But no.

Because he holds me
In the night.
And he holds me
In the morning.
He holds me when
I'm sleeping.
When I never even
Know it.

And he craves me
Without asking.
He craves me
Without thinking.
Craving me
Is second nature
To him.

So
"No."
He's not you.
But you're not him.
And you were never willing
To be.

So go back home.
And give me back
The keys
To my heart.

Crisp is in the mountains,
Not kin with the sea,
Empty roads,
Not filled with busy bees,
Blank land forever reaching,
Not buildings forever creeping,
Wind is our sound,
Not sirens that can always be found,
Farm land is our job,
Not something you can rob,
Our sweat and our blood go into the dirt
Not by force, but by our work,
You see a potato, we see home,
Not some random dinner which you can let go,
I know you think the apple is great,
But it has a lot on it's plate,
And I'm sure it doesn't care for you,
As much as this warm potato stew,
Which was grown here in Idaho,
just for me and you...

there is a fire, somewhere.
the sun/sun making mad love to the mother earth like hey.
hey to the water,
hey to the waves,
           & all bits below.

            endless mad love.

& electric, sing the youth.
swung the tooth of photosynthetic children trickling like tributaries
into/onto/toward all worldly tufts.
prisoners of the wild.
prisoners of the city, yet swords of something like the heart.
           like an amber ale popped spare
& nowhere but up,
baby.

old cassette-tape
as bottleneck netting. this is
stellar
fishing.

            who’s wet khakis?

mine.

visitors from the great stars and lush.
tall nettle, tall tent-
city &
popping sap campfires. acid-
dropped and cooler cocked.
rekindle this
                bliss,
                cosmos.