Dark Lady Poetry - Michael Lee Johnson




Michael Lee Johnson





Untitled I Walk

(Psychiatric Assessment)




Untitled I walk
through life
with a shrink
from Yugoslavia,
whose as large as big foot.
With a novel in one hand,
and shaking his fingers at me
with the other,
he wants to control me with a shovel,
tie me in knot balls, emotional twisters,
and squeeze the emotional pages
out of my life like a twisted sponge.
I retaliate, control him back,
wage war in a vicarious cycle
squeeze his testicles like electrical wires
inside my mind’s eye,
cut his tongue with razors,
dull his clinical words.
Play his game, only better.
He  picks up the play phone,
threatens to call the police,
leashing me in my corner
like a trapped dog
forces me to bark
into submission
like a beagle basset bitch.
He treats me with word babble.
I tell him he is a damn Ukrainian idiot.
Peeved off I race
to the parking lot, head to the bushes,
like a blue racer snake threatened,
hop bunny rabbit into my S-10
Chevy pick-up truck,
memo pad in hand,
scribbling ruminating notes
I surrender naked till my next prescription,
untitled I walk.




South Chicago Night



south Chicago is filled with drifters,
sugar rats, street walkers, pick-pockets and pimps,
a few whores on 95th street south
fill out the night agenda with silent whispers;
thousands of tiny fingers of greed snitch
dip into pockets other than their own.
The night air is full of insects and Lake Michigan perch smells.
Ladies diligent in the night,
High on the rise of condo balconies and drugs
Paint a picture, gesture to strangers on the streets
below, “do you want a date?”
The neon signs are blinking and half the bulbs
are burned out.
Mayor daily or is it Daley, is tucked in sleeping blankets tonight
in south Bridgeview; while most of the trouble lodges at the Salvation
Army where Christ lives with sinners.
Parents, despair.  Surrender their children for
bucks and old silver coins traded earlier at the pawn shop;
some drink gut-rot sweet cherry wine and act as slave pushers−
but the children continue to roam the streets in designer clothing.
Before the warmth of morning sun, lips grin,
sidewalks fold turn up and open to foot traffic,
the city of Chicago trembles from the taste of delicious dew.
Just a map image and picture−frame shadow
of the city with the “big shoulders.”
Mayor Daily or is it Daley is sleeping and ducked away sound tonight.
The big city drifts, and in the morning light, sailboats
lean against the side walls of Lake Michigan sand and shoreline.













Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois.He is heavy influenced by:Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, Leonard Cohen, and Allen Ginsberg.His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at:  . The original version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom, can be found at:  .   He also has 2 previous chapbooks available at: .