Stuck

I pulled out of my driveway this beautiful morning full of optimism, on my way to the Verizon Store to pay off Jeannie’s phone, and then go to the gym – get fit – get my head straight!

Seconds into my journey the Check Engine light flashes on and says, in the droll voice of a Check Engine light, “Excuse me sir. I don’t know what you’re plans are today, but I might have other plans.” Then it says, as if it’s being helpful, “There’s an Auto Zone not far from here,” and I note – yes there is, right between the Verizon Store and the Gym. How lucky!

The truck is driving fine, and the gauges look good, so I continue.

Now I’m in the Verizon Store, and the conversation goes like…  “Hi / I’d like to / Yes / The phone number is / Great / Got it / The balance is,” and I hold out a wad of cash. The guy looks at me like I’m holding out a chicken. “Umm. I can’t take that,” he says, backing up a little. I look down to confirm I hadn’t pulled a chicken out of my pocket by mistake. I hadn’t. Then he says, “Do you have a card?” I did.

Now the phone is paid for, but I’ll have to stop at the bank to deposit the cash to offset the debit card charge. Lucky for me, the Bank is conveniently located between the Auto Zone and the Gym. This is all working out perfectly.

Now I’m at the Auto Zone, and they couldn’t be more helpful. Out to my truck we go with the gizmo to see if I need a new engine, or just a gas cap. The rain flips from drizzle to soak, so I zip up my coat, and unlock the truck for the guy. Ignition on, click, plug in, zing, buzz, unplug. Good job Gizmo! And back in the store we go.

“Hmmm?” says the helpful guy, “It’s your catalytic converter.”

“How much is a new one,” I ask, reaching up to unzip my coat.

“Around $400,” he says, ”but that’s probably not your problem. You could try some catalytic converter cleaner.”

“Does it work?” I ask, pulling at my zipper

.

“Not really, but it’s cheaper than a catalytic converter” he assures me.

“But you said that’s probably not the problem anyway,” I point out, beginning to get agitated because my zipper won’t budge, and I’m getting hot.

Now we’re talking o2 sensors, upstream, downstream, bank I, bank 2, etc., and I pull my zipper up a tad, ‘cause it won’t go down, in hopes of unjamming it… and now it’s all the way up, jammed under my chin, and welded there. I thank the helpful man for his advice and leave.

Now I’m parked in front of the bank, fighting to get out of my coat with the desperation of a man trying to escape a grizzly bear. I know you’re not supposed to fight a grizzly. But this coat, by trickery had already consumed me. I couldn’t just lay there and be digested. Eventually, after a hard-fought struggle, I managed to get the zipper down to mid-neck position. Now that I could at least bend my coat collar down, I figured I could enter the bank without looking too suspicious. I think I pulled it off. Nobody pressed an alarm.

Now I'm back in the truck. Success! The phone is paid for, the bank is reimbursed, and I can probably drive all over town without damaging my engine. Time to go to the gym – get fit – get my head straight! If I could just get this coat over my head I would, but I still can’t... So I dont.

Now I’m back home, and yes, I did finally manage to fight my way out of that coat. It’s lying on the floor now, in front of the wood stove like a bear skin rug with its head ripped off. I think I’m gonna leave it there for a while – as a trophy that I darn well earned today.

Maybe tomorrow I'll go to the gym.

Goblin Stew

I'm going to the pumpkin patch

now with a scary plan to hatch.

Some little goblins I will catch,

and then their heads I will detatch,

and chop them up to make a batch...

a batch of goblin stew from scratch,

the likes of which no mix can match.

And then I'll give a bowl to you

for I am sure you'll like it too

much better than that awful goo

they sell down on the Avenue.

That stuff I cannot bear to chew!

I make a face like Depardieu

when'er I eat it. Yes I do.

Oh yes I do. I swear it's true!

And if you ate it you would too...

So take a tip from one who knows

that goblin stew mix really blows.

It's nothing like the label shows.

You'll find it's mostly made from crows

and artificial goblin toes -

the kind that never decompose.

I would not feed it to my foes!

But I digress. Now I must leave.

I've many goblins yet to cleave.

Goodbye,

and Happy Hallows' Eve!

The Wonderful World of Color

You still see ‘em from time to time - hotel signs that advertise “Color TV”.  It’s the mark of an old sign for sure, but people my age hardly give ‘em a second thought. To young people though it must be like seeing a hotel sign that boasts “Indoor Plumbing!” Most kids these days have never even seen a black and white TV set, so they can’t imagine anything special about a new-fangled color model. Well young readers, you’re all a little spoiled… Why I can still remember when we got our first color mirror. That’s right kids, I had to brush my teeth in front of a black and white mirror until I was 6 years old. Don’t believe me? Go ask your grandfather.

And about those first hotels to advertise “Indoor Plumbing,” I can still hear Great Grandma Margaret saying, “Let’s stop here Frank, they got indoor outhouses,” and Frank saying, “That’s unsanitary Margaret. Outhouses need fresh air blowing through ‘em. You won’t catch me sittin’ on one of them in-the-house flush toilets.” And so Frank and Margaret continue on down the road in search of traditional accommodations. Yes folks, today’s TVs, computers, phones, and even mirrors are all in color now, but to us older folks the past will always be more colorful.

R.L. Johnson, 2020

Highway Hazard

Inspired by an actual Montana driver

Highway Hazard

He drove it
like he stole it
and he drank
like a boss...
until he finally
put his own name
on a roadside cross.

Burma Shave

R.L. Johnson

Jerry the Ant

The future keeps a tight lip.

The past just won't shut up.

The architect that

cranks the wheel 

keeps coffee in its cup.

Miss Karma sips on sweet tea 

and waves a paper fan;

and Jerry heads

to work again

in a primer-gray sedan,

were cities grow like ant hills 

in fields of golden corn,

and ants for miles 

keep pressing on

the gas and break and horn.

And Jerry keeps a tight lip.

His head just won't shut up.

Then he runs a light 

and cranks the wheel...

Jerry, please wake up.

R.L. Johnson, 2020

#AhmaudArbery

I thought I would edit this before considering if finished, but decided not to. The following was my gut response last week after reading about Ahmaud Arbery's murder.

Ahmaud

I do not want
my white privilege.
It does not elevate me.
It elevates no one.
It does not hurt me
I confess.
It makes my life easy.
It helps me, it does.
It hurts others -
the non-members
of my club -
the white club.
I'm in the club,
though I did not sign up.
I get the benefits,
though I pay no dues.
The non-members
pay my dues.
Black and brown people
pay my dues.
It's a screwed up system.
It builds walls to keep
brown people out -
walls to keep brown
people in - corridors
to push them
this way, and that.
It replaces walls
with minefields and
calls it progress.
It taunts, it lies, it exploits.
It kills, it kills, it kills.
But it helps me.
But I want to reject it.
It does not elevate me.
It elevates no one.
It leaves me
standing in mud -
in the mud of
a shameful past.
It leaves us all standing
in the mud of
a shameful past -
and the mud is still here
because the blood and
the tears still flow.
The mud will not dry
because the blood and
the tears still flow -
the blood of young men,
the tears of mothers.
The endless tears
of an entire race
keeps moist the mud -
a mud first formed
from the sweat
of their ancestors -
the builders of America.
I step up, but I sink
back down.
My life is easy,
but my feet are dirty.

R.L. Johnson 5/7/2020

Mirror Mirror

Driving home from the store this morning I thought, I wonder how fast I’d have to go to make my side mirrors flap back against the side of the truck? I cogitated on the question for a moment – gathering up the variables in my mind – wind force, air resistance, mirror bracket tension, barometric pressure, relative humidity, and so forth… Heck, just give ‘em all a number – add, divide, and multiply in all the right places – maybe throw in a square root or two, and “POW!” you got your vehicle speed. But I’m not very good at doin’ algebra in my head, so I skipped ahead to the practicality considerations of the matter. If I’m driving fast enough to make my mirrors flap back, I’m probably not gonna need my mirrors - so no reason not to do it… Unless the guy behind me is trying to make his hood ornament fly off, but that would be highly unusual, so I figured I wouldn’t worry about that. At this point of my pondering, I was just cresting the top of Graham Hill – the perfect place to try to go 900mph in a Toyota Tundra. Should I? Shouldn't I? then I realized – if my mirrors flap back, the improved aerodynamics would likely propel me beyond 1,000mph in an instant. Well that would surely add a mile or two to my stopping distance should a rabbit jump out in front of me… not to mention I’d blow past my turn up ahead… So I proceeded home at my normal speed. Up near 288th Street I saw a hood ornament laying on the side of the road… I know what you’re thinkin’…  Man! He must have been flying!

R.L. Johnson, 2020

Gallery Phantasm

"Go ahead,"
I say, distracted,
"I'll catch up,"
but I don't.

Instead I stand
mesmerized by an
inexplicable light - by
cascading dapples of
brightness beams and
sparkles, flying like
diamond-shot bursting
from unseen artillery.

Standing steadfast
before me, with light -
this bright insoluble
light at its back,
a grove of ancient
trees lifts its golden
canopy high upon
silhouetted branches.

Beyond the trees -
behind a grassy ridge,
an army of rebels
fighting darkness with
torches and ramrods,
tamp luminance deep
into black iron cannon
barrels. From here they
fire volley after blinding
volley into the trees
as they have without
pause for centuries.
Cannon light crashes
through the wood,
rips through the canvas,
and scatters at my feet.

I approach closer,
spellbound by the
dancing illuminations
that backlight the
dry spice colored
leaves of these
deep-rooted trees.
I stare through the
wizened foliage,
following flecks of
silver glint backwards,
deep into the scene -
deep into the painting
that hangs before me.

I look beyond the
stillness and into
the motion of the
brush strokes;
at the light flitting,
at the leaves rustling,
floating, falling -
scuttling along
the forest floor -
pushed by winds,
and pulled by time. 

I watch sinuous bands
of fog hang lazy o're
the grassy ridge.
Rising above the fog
climb layer upon layer
of dark foreboding
mountainous rock,
pressed down by a
moody autumn sky.

"Go ahead,"
I said, distracted,
"I'll catch up".
But I didn't.

A new assemblage
of gallery patrons
now mingle around
me - murmuring at
the painting with
the backlit trees.
They observe it, nod,
and move on from
frame to frame, fading
from my notice until
their mumbled voices
fall and blow away
across the floor.

After the chamber
empties of all eyes
save mine, and the
last footfall's echo stills,
the painting begins
to increase its
animated activities.

At first it moves almost
imperceptibly. Then
with the intricacy and
dexterity of a woman
removing her bra
while fully clothed,
the painting slips out
of its frame and hangs
adrift in the cool air,
slowly undulating.

Then in tones that are
neither sound nor color,
the escaped painting
cries out - summoning
its creator. Time and
distance bridge like
water drops bumping
and joining together.
Out of nothingness
the artist with his
tools appears, and
the unbound work
settles lightly on its
old master's easel.

I lean and look over
the painter's shoulder,
watching his arm and
brush as they sweep
hither and thither
serpent-like, adding,
blending, pushing
and pulling colors
across the canvas.

Aromas of oil and
solvent, pigment,
and earth, fill the air.
Then, as one might
see by turning a
kaleidoscope wheel,
the scene multiplies.
Sounds erupt in
multiple languages
and the room fills
with a flurry of activity.

Painters by the dozens
are working on their
canvasses along every
wall of the gallery.
They work with
instruments large
and small, with strokes
long and short, light
and bold - applying
pigments of every hue.

Eventually one painter
sets down her brush
and walks to another
easel. Each artist in
time does the same -
pausing to admire
the creativity of others.
Some stand gazing
into the past, while
others stand gazing
far into the future.
All are connected -
connected forever
through the conduit
of their art, and the
conductivity of the paint.

R.L. Johnson, 2020

The Farmer's Wife

When the 
pitchfork tines
shot 'tween his ribs, 
he knew 
she wasn't kidding.
And all who knew 
the family said
the farmer's end 
was fitting.

R.L. Johnson, 2020

Navel Gazing

Are little kids self-conscious these days? The ones I see don't seem to be, but wow, I sure was. When I was around six years old, a little girl asked me if I had an innie or an outie. The subject was belly buttons, and I was mortified.

"An innie?" I'd seen a few innies in my day, and as they flashed through my panicked mind, they all seemed to belong to chubby kids. "Oh God! If I have an innie, she'll think I'm fat! Okay Randy, breath. Maybe you have an outie. Yeah maybe it's a... Noooo!!" my brain screamed as I suddenly remembered Scotty - big-time outie. Surely I would have noticed if I had an outie like that. No, it wasn't possible. But now with Scotty's outie on my mind, even a little outie was unacceptable. "I wish I didn't have a belly button. I wish this little girl would mind her own business!"

R.L. Johnson, 2020

Below the Saw Mill

St Regis Lumber Co. (circa 1977)

Withered and bent,
a hunchback man
in morning stands.
Steam-driven rods
thrust and clank
o'er his vault of toil,
deafening, dank.
The building shakes
as cables snake
past creosoted beams.
Once tall and lean,
now bent, unclean
of sweat and steam,
the old man sweeps.
The small dark room
of bench and broom
from which he sweeps
to earn his keep -
I still see clearly
in my sleep.
There long ago -
there was a crack,
and cables took
as cables do
when cables snap -
the shortest route
from me to you.
Steel breached
his flesh and bone.
And doctors mended
what they could,
and thus it came to be.
Now old and bent,
it goes unspoken,
"A lucky man is he
for he is not
completely broken".
And leaders of the company
did show some generosity
with calculated loyalty -
the type you find in industry -
for nothing here is given free.
An offer made
was accepted,
and thus it came to be.
A family, pride,
and bills to pay
every day, now
keep him 'neath
the great machine,
to toil and keep
his basement clean,
while o'er his head,
steam pressure makes
the mighty head-rig lunge.
Teeth of saw blades
tear the air,
and into timber plunge.
Slabs of hemlock
feed the mill,
and sawdust falls
like snow -
between the cracks,
as he has -
to the concrete floor below.
With dirt-black face
and empty eyes,
into the broom
he leaned,
the morning that I met him,
when I was just eighteen.

R.L. Johnson, revised 2019

Autumn!

I went out to the backyard today,
and I yelled, "Fall!"
Well actually I yelled, "Autumn!"
because when I call him by Autumn
he knows I'm serious.

"Autumn!" I hollered.
He breezed over from the woods
and whirrled nervously in front of me,
shifting his weight from side to side.

"Look Autumn" I said,
"I know it's mid-September,
but I'm not done with my Summer projects yet.
I need you to lay low for a few more weeks".

Fall picked up a leaf
and toyed with it for a moment.

"Autumn, don't!"
He picked up more leaves.
"Autumnus!!!" (I'm really serious now).
And he flung them in my face.

"Just two weeks!" I yelled,
seeking compromise.
Fall swept across the yard,
turned and glared at me.

"One week?"
It began to rain.

I'm inside now,
sending an angry text message to Summer.

R.L. Johnson, 2018

Cabin C.

We did not choose
this voyage.
No one ever does.
Sunlit brochures sit
in dusty stacks
'neath a window
by the agent's door.
"Cruise of a Lifetime"
the cover says,
destination blank.
Nobody dares
pick one up.

There is no line
at the ticket booth
on the end of the pier.
The clerk plays
solitaire all day,
every day.
Nobody pushes
through the turnstile.
Yet every hour
another ship
filled to capacity
leaves the dock.

We left in the spring.
Been shipbound
one year now.
Correction -
you've been
shipbound.
I'm free to take
shore leave
whenever I choose.
But I choose
to stay aboard,
to sleep in your cabin.

No - we did not
pick this voyage.
But we're on
a sound ship.
Captain Blau is as fit
as any on the sea.
Her crew well trained,
well equipped.
From the surgeon's
quarters, to the labs
and imaging facilities,
everything is top-notch.

On Wednesdays
we sit out on the
chemotherapy deck
with other passengers,
encouraging and
supporting one another.
Every night we stand
at the rail, and look
to the horizon.
We make the best of it,
because there is
no other choice.

Saturday night
we went on a date.
You looked in the
mirror as you did
your makeup,
and you laughed
when many women
would have cried.
"I have four eyelashes!"
you said.
"What am I supposed to do
with four eyelashes?"

Then we went topside -
celebrated my birthday -
had a pint of stout
in Blackbeard's Tap Room.
Soon we'll celebrate
your birthday.
This summer we'll return
to the pier.
We will disembark
this ship.
We will drop,
and kiss the ground.

R.L. Johnson, 4/10/2018

Chemotherapy

3 of 3 poems from

Her Cancer Journey

Old and Alone

The old man stormed
into his bedroom,
cursing, searching
for his glasses.

His glasses
watched curiously
from the dresser
as he circled the room.

His hearing aids
on the bathroom vanity
listened intently
through the doorway.

Though he was alone,
his every move,
his every word
was observed.

So sayeth
the dentures
in the jar
on the nightstand.

R.L. Johnson, 2018

New Year's Day (at 7:00 A.M.)

I know,
you don't want
to fight
every day,
to be the hero
every day,
to be sick
every day.
I know,
you don't want
to get up
every day,
to drive to town
every day,
for another injection,
infusion,
inspection,
intrusion.
I know
you can barely
open your eyes
this morning.

But it's time
to go.

R.L. Johnson, 1/1/2018

Granix Injections

2 of 3 poems from

Her Cancer Journey

Driving There

Packing your things
into our car
this morning,
and driving you
to the city split
my thoughts
in two. Split
my determination
in two. So
if I seemed
uncommitted
to accelerating
when the light turned,
or uncommitted
when our exit came,

it wasn't due
to the early hour.
It was because
my heart at every
opportunity
wanted to turn
the car around
and drive you away
from today,
toward another day.
A day without worry.
A day without fear,
without pain,
without hospitals,
without cancer.

R.L. Johnson, 11/2/2017

Bilateral Mastectomy

1 of 3 poems from

Her Cancer Journey

A Proposal to the New Confederacy

I propose a compromise to America's Historian-in-Chief Donald Trump and his loyal supporters: Put statues of slaves - chained to the auction block, tied to the whipping post, dead in the field - at the base of your "beautiful" Confederate monuments and we won't tear them down. They can stand forever in accurate context for all the world to see. Your cherished history will be saved. You will be able to proudly take your children and grandchildren to these monuments and show them exactly what your Southern States so gallantly fought to preserve.

R.L. Johnson, 2017

Leap

Truth
is the narrow

footbridge

spanning the deep

chasm

between us

and our future.

Deception
is a green

wild-eyed belief
that one can leap
to the other side
without falling
into the abyss.

R.L.J. 2017

Taking My Sweet Time

I turtled up the hill,
slothed across the street,
snailed up the steps,
and glaciered my way
into the foyer.
"You're late" she said.

R.L.J. 2017

Going to a Funeral

I got up this morning

to continue my journey.

It’s a long goddamned grind it is.

The trip to my funeral I mean.

I’ve been at it for as long as I can remember,

and even before I can remember

when I didn’t realize where I was going;

when I was a toddler wandering aimlessly;

and later riding my tricycle

half the time in the wrong direction,

away from my funeral,

and toward something else.

Toward something I can no longer recall.

Toward something that became

just the memory of a memory.

Toward something that once was

an audible and visual recollection

that repeated itself again and again

in the back of my mind,

and then slowly faded away.

It was a recollection from another life.

A recollection of the end of that life.

The one before this one.

The one in the wrong direction.

But I’ve been pointed right now

for almost fifty years,

walking the zigzag path

toward my funeral,

knowing full well that I’ll likely drop dead

a few days before arriving.

But with the help of the living,

I will show up on time.

R.L.J. 2017