Spotlight: Tequila / Jesus in a Nighttime City / Clock Maker / Life Is-Transition

Tequila (V2)

Single life is-tequila with lime,
shots of travelers, jacks, diamonds, and then spades,
holding back aces-
mocking jokers
paraplegic aged tumblers of the night trip.
Poltergeist defined as another frame,
a dancer in the corner shadows.
Single lady don’t eat the worm
beneath the belt, bashful, very loud, yet unspoken.
Your man lacks verb, a traitor to your skin.

Jesus in a Nighttime City (V4)

Jesus walks
Southwest side
Chicago nighttime city
in bulletproof vest
stores closed,
blasted windows,
mink furs stolen,
a few diamonds for glitter-
old parks, metal detectors, quarters, nickels, dimes,
coins in the pockets of thieves, black children
on merry-go-rounds, Maywood, IL.
Danger children run in danger
in spirit, testimony,
red velvet outdates Jesus’ robe.

Clock Maker (V2)

Solo, I am clock maker
born September 22nd,
a Virgo/Libra mix insane,
look at my moving parts, apart yet together,
holes in air, artistic perfection,
mechanical misfits everywhere,
life is a brass lever, a wordsmith, an artist at his craft.
Clock maker, poet tease, and squeeze tweezers.
I am a life looking through microscope,
screen shots, snapshot tools,
mainsprings, swing pendulum, endless hours,
then again, ears open tick then a tock.
Over humor and the last brass bend,
when I hear a hair move its breath,
I know I am the clock waiter,
the clock maker listens-
a tick, then a tock.

Life Is-Transition (V2)

Transition, is song, passages.
291.5 pounds, age 67, 6’4′, gross as a pig waiting for
+++++butcher’s cut.
Aging chews at my back, my knee joints, chisels, slivers
+++++in dampness.
Legs are corn stalks burning; twist fibers, bending, late
+++++October, Halloween night.
Good news, 67, lost 38.9 pounds this year, rocking gently
+++++shifting my pain away.
I am no longer a beagle pup, an English cocker spaniel
+++++chasing the bitches around,
no longer a champion bike rider, yo-yo champion, nor
+++++Hula Hooper dancer or swinger.
Now I expand my morning stiffness with stretch rubber
+++++bands, legs lifted high then down.
Wild mustard, wild black rice and the Mediterranean diet
+++++have taken over my youthful dining experiences.
I no longer have nightmares about senior discounts, or
+++++Meals on Wheels,
part-time bus driving jobs, or aerobics.
When spices are in season, I out live my postponements
+++++to my grave.
Screech owl, I am an old buck, baby hoot on a comeback,
+++++dancing my ass off.
Transition, shedding old loose snakeskin.
Still listening to those old hits, like Jesse Colter, Waylon Jennings,
+++++“Storms Never Last.”
Transition is song passages.

Michael Johnson

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and US citizen. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois.  He has been published in more than 850 small press magazines in 27 countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. He is the author of The Lost American:  From Exile to Freedom, and several poetry chapbooks, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.