Posts Tagged ‘Underground Poetry’



Twenty dollars for a blow job, I said.


He smiled, as I jumped in his car.

We drove to his place,

a plush apartment in West Hollywood.


After the dirty work, he sat two twenties on the couch

and went to the bathroom.


I picked up a single twenty

and walked out the door.



he fell in love with me.





Manna Falls

Cardinals bicker

and knock seed from the feeder.

Doves parade below.




Hope in Winter

Robin on the lawn.

Three hops and stops to listen.

Somewhere must be spring.






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Memories of Winnipeg

And Crazy Eight Bar

By Michael Lee Johnson


I’m drunk, isolated,

and horny,

I stumble into The Crazy Eight

Bar and it wasn’t my lucky charmed night.

Flirting with Indian women, delusional

with my white ass superiority,

I’m doing card tricks,

and end up getting my guts

and rib cage kicked out.

I’m circled by Métis Indians

no facial war paint

no Indian war bonnets,

but they fooled me.


I’m down eating floor dirt,

and the kicks keep coming-

thick needle toe boots, cowboy style, fast and heavy.

I crawl to my car half dead barely breathing,

collapsed lungs, head on the steering wheel

I somehow how find the hospital.

Spitting blood and Apple Jack wine,

my tan suite is ruined,

I pissed my white pants yellow-

worst of all I deserved it.

So I learn, when in a strange town

find a place where the color of your face fits,

And don’t cheat at cards.





Native I Am, Cocopa

By Michael Lee Johnson


I am mother proud

of the greatest

events that fade before me.

I dig earthworms

and farm dirt

from my fingertips

and grab native

Baja & Southwestern


soil & desert sand

wedged between my

spaced teeth.

My numbers or few or is it only me

a useless decay, dentures

lost in desert sand?

I gain no respect.

I once drank a Budweiser beer

out of the keg in

St. Louis, Missouri

just to make sure I was

born on north American soil.

In my heart digs many memories

and 41 relatives left in 1937.

I see praise & prayers

from native Gods.

I am Cocopa of Yuman family

and extent into the mouth

of many Colorado rivers and mountains.

Mist is my memories.

I survive on corn, melons,

pumpkins and mesquite beans-

add a few grass seeds, a hint of red wine,

burial roots of history faded on







Morning Horny

You wake up so horny

You want to hump



And you want the hump to go on forever

To never stop

To blow fast

To last

This great effort, this

Sexy hump


But your bed’s empty

And you’re all alone

And your hand looks at you

You swear it’s giving you the eye



So you smile back




Words In Use

I hope your

poetic is

deep wet

and wide.


I hope you under



My poetic


hard and



There is







no love




I wanna come back as your tight black skirt

I wanna come back as your tight black skirt

I wanna feel your bend and

move and


I wanna know your shape,

your figure,

your curves

your outline

and feel you

really feel you

your body hot and potent

your body full and ripe

your weight pushing against me

pressing down on me

ready to split and burst

at the seams

I wanna come back as your tight black skirt

and understand you

the woman in you


the sex that you are

like you haven’t got a clue




All I Did Was Admire Her Aloud
“Quiet, please,” I tell her,
“I want to hear the music.”
She is sitting next to me again,
this time on a paisley couch,
a woman in a lime bikini I met
only this morning sprawled
on the Morse Avenue Beach.
All I did was admire her aloud,
not recognize her age, and an hour later
she brought me home with her.
Now she is curling into me again
and moaning at a remarkable pitch.
Finally she spits into my neck
what it’s all about
this time and every time
“Honey…I am…coming.”

On Parenting


Late at night, past any teenager’s


My friend Chris tells me that

Punks don’t have parents.

People who were raised right

Don’t shoot off fireworks at shows,

Destroy shopping carts,

Weigh their jackets down with studs,

Or listen to Minor Threat.

The last time I saw my father,

He punched me in the face.

Super punx.


I once heard a comedian say that

He did not want to be

The kind of dad that inspires art.

My dad called my brother Jake a fag

Back when he had pink hair,

So Jake used it in a song and

Stormed out of the auditorium

Once he was done screaming along to the guitar.


I can’t remember how many times

My mother threatened to leave when I was growing up,

Or how many times I found myself on the floor under her,

Learning just how sorry I was supposed to feel.

Open handed blows only –

She was the good parent, after all.


My childhood taught me that

No good came from talking to social workers.

Well, I did tell that one that he saved my life,

But he was never on my case.

He just writes nice little songs about

Lynching, meth, and never meeting his real father.


It would be too optimistic

To hope that my parents made me

A stronger poet.

That would be giving a lot of credit to

Alcohol and the United States military,

Red wine and grey gun oil,

That I’m not ready to give.



Don’t Fuck Bad Writers


I should have known things weren’t going to work out

When he sent me his short story

And, by the first page,

I knew that a mere eleven pages

Was going to be too long.


He ripped off Metamorphosis.

I didn’t even realize his reading level was that high.

He turned his protagonist into

An end table.

It was called “The End Table.”


I can’t count the number of times

He asked me to marry him and run away

To New York

So we could be a writing team,

Husband and wife;

But it wasn’t exactly clear


Which of us got to be the husband.