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I bow to no man, god, nor country,
But for you I would take a knee.
Walk upon a shore of glass
Proclaim vows unto the sea.
A voice once lost in tides,
The winds and ocean swell.
Found again once more upon
Echoed whispers of a shell.
The osprey
plunges

an unerring
spear

with
atlatl instinct.

Talons
slice surf

a
loch picked

of
thrashing rainbows

Icarus’
folly eclipsed.
I learned early that **** was the form
of choice for ***.  Not that the act was
named or the ****** ugly.  

Where in the world are you all now?
you mealyworms.  How like you to
teach me violence as love and leave
me to learn the lesson so well.

I recline.  **** is the sharing of two
faces.  Your face smells of beer and
your pounding hips ground me.  I
lie.  You are a broken bottle smacked
against a building on a hot summer night.

You are the cigarette before left in the
weeds.  I learned from you to trust
the backseat of cars, to wait for calls
from the garbage man’s son.

Trash man, black car, you hung
on a tree.  All your sperms dangle
in the light of the bowling alley, shine
in the rubber.

Old man, pound on me till you think
I am satisfied.  Old man.  Eat ****.
old man eat ****
old men eat ****, grow bald.
Remember me in the dashlight
I was the fifteen year old rubbed
drunk, sunk under the haze of
horror.  You were the gun.


Wednesday, September 26, 2001


Written over 20 years ago  interesting in light of my evolution
𝐼 𝑀𝑖𝑙𝑙 π‘π‘™π‘Žπ‘›π‘‘ π‘Žπ‘› π‘Žπ‘™π‘šπ‘œπ‘›π‘‘ π‘‘π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘’
𝐼𝑛 π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘’π‘§π‘’ π‘œπ‘“ π‘¦π‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿ β„Žπ‘Žπ‘›π‘‘π‘ 
𝐼𝑛 π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π΄π‘’π‘‘π‘’π‘šπ‘› π‘œπ‘“ π‘€β„Žπ‘–π‘‘π‘’ π‘—π‘Žπ‘ π‘šπ‘–π‘›π‘’π‘ 
π‘‡β„Žπ‘’ π‘šπ‘œπ‘œπ‘›π‘™π‘–π‘”β„Žπ‘‘,
π·π‘Žπ‘›π‘π‘–π‘›π‘” π‘Žπ‘šπ‘œπ‘›π‘” π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘π‘™π‘œπ‘ π‘ π‘œπ‘šπ‘ ;
𝑂 π΄π‘’π‘‘π‘’π‘šπ‘› π‘Žπ‘™π‘šπ‘œπ‘›π‘‘ π‘π‘™π‘œπ‘ π‘ π‘œπ‘š!
π‘Œπ‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿ 𝑙𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑙𝑒 β„Žπ‘Žπ‘›π‘‘π‘  π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘’ π‘‘π‘Žπ‘›π‘π‘–π‘›π‘”;
π‘‡β„Žπ‘’ π‘π‘Ÿπ‘–π‘π‘˜ π‘œπ‘“ π‘¦π‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿ π‘€π‘Žπ‘™π‘™
𝐼𝑠 π‘π‘™π‘œπ‘œπ‘šπ‘–π‘›π‘”...
π‘‡β„Žπ‘’ 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑑 π‘œπ‘“ π‘¦π‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿ 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠
𝐼𝑠 π‘“π‘Ÿπ‘œπ‘š π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘ π‘‘π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘ ...
π‘Šβ„Žπ‘¦ π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘’ π‘¦π‘œπ‘’ 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 π‘šπ‘’ π‘¦π‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿ π‘ β„Žπ‘œπ‘’π‘ ?
π‘Šβ„Žπ‘’π‘› π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘šπ‘Žπ‘‘π‘›π‘’π‘ π‘  π‘œπ‘“
π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘ π‘π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘Ÿπ‘œπ‘€
π½π‘’π‘šπ‘π‘  π‘‘π‘œ π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘ π‘˜π‘¦....
π΄π‘§π‘Žπ‘™π‘’π‘Ž 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠...
π‘Šβ„Žπ‘’π‘› π‘¦π‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿ π‘€π‘Žπ‘™π‘™
𝐺𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 π‘‘β„Žπ‘œπ‘’π‘ π‘Žπ‘›π‘‘π‘  π‘œπ‘“ π‘€β„Žπ‘–π‘‘π‘’ π‘π‘™π‘œπ‘ π‘ π‘œπ‘šπ‘ .....
Ω…Ψ’Ω‡Ψ―Ψ§Ψ―
~
July 2024
HP Poet: Gregory Alan Johnson
Age: 69
Country: USA


Question 1: A warm welcome to the HP Spotlight, G Alan. Please tell us about your background?

Gregory Alan Johnson: "I grew up in a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio called Brook Park. Son of a US Steel customer service rep and a law firm receptionist, both alcoholics. Outside of the occasional chaos and abuse of having alcoholic parents, I suppose I had a fairly normal upbringing. I loved reading, art and baseball in that order. After graduating high school, I got a job as an auto mechanic apprentice. I fell in with a motley crew of reprobates, in which the pursuit of *****, drugs and girls was of the utmost importance. Amid this swirling of foolishness I also incessantly drew and wrote poetry in journal after journal. After 2 years I had assembled enough of a portfolio to be accepted into Cooper School of Art in 1974. Here I fell in with another group of ne'er-do-wells, but this crew was of a deeper variety; intellectuals, artists of course, and thinkers, all fueled by the seventies drug scene. It made for some very interesting days. I dropped out of art school after a year and a half, having learned pretty much all I needed to, and being thoroughly disgusted with the contemporary art scene which was populated with smug know-it-alls. (Laziness and a lack of discipline may have had something to do with it as well, but my current work reflects my disdain for these types and what they consider to be "good"). I ended up with a steady job as a warehouse manager, god help me, but always hanging with the eccentric creatives. I called this tribe the "levy Group" after fifties Cleveland beat poet and lunatic d.a. levy. This group may have made an impact on the Cleveland arts scene, if we didn't place so much emphasis on getting ****** and ******* off. But it resulted in some really amazing creative moments and would inform my work for the rest of my life.

I got married in 1980 if you can believe it, I still don't, and proceeded to raise a family. I was a part time free-lance illustrator and cartoonist, as well as working my full time job as a "manager". All during this time I wrote poetry and created artwork that I showed to NOBODY. I was in the midst of becoming a chronic alcoholic dealing with crushing depression, all the while showing the world a happy face, and this art turned out to be deeply therapeutic, but dark and strange...confronting my shadows, if you will. I managed to raise three boys, who seemed to turn out pretty well in spite of me, but my alcoholism was taking me over. After several breakdowns and some suicide attempts, I finally got sober in 2004. I remain sober today. I love it.

I retired in 2021 after having several scintillating logistics jobs, and decided to become a full-time creative artist. I have had some success doing this, including 3 solo shows. The arts center that was hosting one of my shows actually put up a billboard for it, as surreal a moment as you can get. My work is displaying in galleries in Cleveland and Columbus, and I've even sold a few. I have won "Best of Show" in three different exhibitions, which I can't quite grasp. I am an active member of the Ohio Poetry Association and have been published in three anthologies, and a couple on-line lit mags. I've never pursued publishing a book. I think my poetry is okay, but I'm an artist first. I am hosting an ekphrastic poetry event at my home gallery in Willoughby Ohio this month, which I'm really excited about. And of course I write on this site, which I love."



Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Gregory Alan Johnson: "I have been writing poetry since the age of 18, having been inspired by E.E. Cummings. I wrote and illustrated hundreds of poems in scores of art journal books. The majority of these were destroyed in a flood about ten years ago. I managed to salvage three. I have been a member of HP since 2019."


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Gregory Alan Johnson: "I just write. Like my art, my muse sort of taps me on the shoulder. When that happens, I delve deep. There is rarely any theme, it's mostly stream of consciousness. Sometimes I play with rules of verse, but I prefer free verse, which is more fun. I rarely rhyme. When I do, it sounds too much like Dr. Seuss, so I leave that to the other poets here. I tend to reminisce, I suppose because I'm pushing 70. I hardly edit except for spelling, and just hit "save" and put it out there. This ****** off some of my more accomplished poet friends, who labor over their work until beads of blood appear on their foreheads. But I always tell them that I don't take my poetry seriously, to which they scoff with derision...and smile."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Gregory Alan Johnson: "I have come to realize that the act of being a living human being is profound and miraculous. We are surrounded by incredible things all the time. There is no mundane. There is no boredom. When I contemplate this for even a second I am overwhelmed. All poets understand this instinctively. And I don't mean life is all la dee dah happy time. It can be terrifically terrible and incredibly wonderful, with an infinity of shades in between. We as poets have this thirst to describe all this; most of us feel a deep obligation to do so. And we fall miserably short, which fuels us to try again. And again. We attempt to describe the indescribable, and explain the inexplicable."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Gregory Alan Johnson: "First, my favorites on HP: Anais Vionet, you Carlo, S Olson, Melancholy of Innocence, Thomas W Case, BLT, patty m, Marshall Gebbie (that wonderful coot), Lori Jones McCaffery, William J Donovan, Jamadhi Verse, Old poet MK, N, John Edward Smallshaw, and so many others, but these names popped right out.. This site houses some amazing talent.
As for the stars: d.a. levy, EE Cummings, Anne Sexton, EVERY SINGLE BEAT POET, but most especially William Burroughs, Charles Bukowski, Keats, Robert Miltner, Mary Oliver, Bob Dylan, Oscar Wilde, Dylan Thomas and Leonard Cohen."



Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Gregory Alan Johnson: "I read voraciously. I'm currently reading "Hotel Utopia" by poet Robert Miltner, "Slick Wrist" by poet Morgan Renae Mat, " A Confederacy of Dunces" by John Kennedy Toole (for I guess the tenth time), and "The Fourth Turning" by Neil Howe and William Strauss. I am consumed by my art career with continuing shows and submissions, some for which I am rejected, which keeps me grounded. I spend a lot of time being a grandpa, doing yard work and staring out the window. I meditate daily."


Carlo C. Gomez: β€œA big thank you for allowing us this opportunity to get to know the man behind the poet, G Alan! We are honored to include you in this ongoing series!”

Gregory Alan Johnson: "Thank YOU Carlo. I appreciate your support of poets!"



Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Gregory Alan Johnson a little bit better. I most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez

We will post Spotlight #18 in August!

~
Gregory Alan Johnson is on
tik tok @gregjohnson8009,
Instagram @gregoryalanart,
Facebook: GregoryAlanArtBusiness,
website: www.gregoryalanart.com,
email: greg@grΒ­egoryalanart.com

Below are some of Gregory Alan Johnson's favorite poems and links to each one:

Hyperactive Observations:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3227290/hyperactive-observations/

Love Amoeba:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3478844/love-amoeba/

Several Hungers:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3303045/several-hungers/

I Was A Stranger:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4628017/i-was-a-stranger/

**** Moon:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4735861/****-moon/
Night comes on like
an old hound lumbering
in from the field.
I don't fight it.
I'm getting too old.
I sit with pen in hand,
and wait for the
darkness to show
me something.

I think about vaginas and
Ireland and fish that
hunt a t night.
I think about
Bukowski and
Beethoven, and the
*******, and a kernel
of corn.
I think about my
life and this night, and
how it is better than
those near-death years of
caterwauling and chaos;
drunk by the river, lonely
as a glass snake.
I was living to drink, and
didn't give a **** about
anyone.
I was searching.
I found it
when the light came.
Here is a link to my you tube channel where I read my poetry from my recent books, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, on Amazon and Rise Up Collected Poems and Short Stories, available on Booksie.com
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qum45hpUqrg&t=16s
Always

(medicine in the
deserts of
burning flesh
sorrowing souls.)

People to treat.
Lives lost or given.
The cold winter sand
forever in your shoes,
your pockets.

Your mouth the harbor
for the grit of every day.
You spit it out in the

***** cups, cracked with
the rush of
hurrying mouths.

Tents breath in and
out, their ***** flabby
from pawing hands.

Today is always unknowing
if the sky will save this
planet of death.

This day of unforgiving.

The supplications of
hands

covered

In blood.


Caroline Shank
10.15.2024
~
"Why is there only one chair in this room?"

"This once was an island." She replied.

"You favor this place then, I take it?"

"How can I not," said she. "The dawn here is quiet."

"Not on this floor, you are much mistaken! The stairs are like an avalanche."

Looking down at herself, she quickly changed the subject. "There are barcodes on each breast now."

"I see. Were you nervous?"

"Only when focusing on the morning break," She confessed. "Otherwise I was much like you--killing what keeps us alive."

"Is that so bad?"

"I wonder. Sometimes I still feel the bruises." She stated. "But I am told this is normal."

"What else did they tell you?"

"To quit worrying about not being built to scale," she stated in displeasure.

"...and?"

"For me to prepare to fall again for the apocalyptic things written in the sky," She admitted with a wicked smile.

"What's so funny?"

"I recognized your handwriting long ago," She uttered into the centrifuge.
~
I.
Optimal allocation for partially replicated database systems on tree-based networks (1992)

My father the mathematician
his carapace beard slow-stained

with moon brook as he worked
at his pine wing desk, an old door

perching on cheapo steel cabinets
with a squat beige computer

whose fan hummed hymns,
strumming the dark.

II.
A lower bound on the probability of conflict under nonuniform access in database systems (1995)

Long drive in smooth maroon
the university belted by fog

Mandelbrots of rain blotching
the windshield face.

Dad sat and glowed with glass
commingled with chalk scent

I became part of Andre's posse
in an atrium bleached with cold air.

III.
Minimizing message complexity of partially replicated data on hypercubes (1996)

When Dad moved out of the farmhouse
we realized he couldn't see well anymore

a thick glaze of dust sticking to everything
coffee mugs of bourbon seeding every room,

******* glaucoma; pride and denial
kept him thorny, but my sister got it done.

When the ***** finally claimed him,
he vanished into the air like pipe smoke.
I miss my dad. The section headings are papers he wrote. He was a number theorist who also loved computer science, and was always the star of his class until he settled into a life as an academician.
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