MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON

 

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON

 

Native I Am, Cocopa (V3)

 

Now once-great events fading

 

into seamless history,

 

I am a mother, proud.

 

My native numbers are few.

 

In my heart digs many memories

 

forty-one relatives left in 1937.

 

Decay is all left of their bones, memories.

 

I pinch my dark skin.

 

I dig earthworms

 

farm dirt from my fingertips

 

grab native

 

Baja and Southwestern California,

 

its soil and sand wedged between my spaced teeth.

 

I see the dancing prayers of many gods.

 

I am Cocopa, a remnant of the Yuman family.

 

I extend my mouth into forest fires

 

Colorado rivers, trout-filled mountain streams.

 

I survive on corn, melons, and

 

pumpkins, mesquite beans.

 

I still, dance in grass skirts

 

drink a hint of red Sonora wine.

 

 

I am a mother, proud.

 

I am parchment from animal earth.

 

Note:  This is the story poem of the Cocopah Indian tribe and their journey over the years. The River People descended from the greater Yuman-speaking area, which occupied lands along the Colorado River. The Cocopah Indian tribe had no written language. However, historical records have been passed on orally and by outside visitors. Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada, Vietnam era.

 

 

Juice Box Girl

 

(After Midnight Moments)

 

I'm a juice box girl,

 

squeeze me, play me

 

like an accordion,

 

box-shaped, but gagged edges.

 

Breathe me inside out,

 

I'm nude, fruity, fractured,

 

strawberry melon,

 

nightshade wine.

 

Chicago, 3:00 a.m.

 

somewhere stranded

 

someone's balcony

 

memories undefined,

 

you will find me there

 

stretched naked, doing

 

the Electric Slide,

 

taking morning selfies

 

upward morning into the sun

 

then in shutters

 

closeout pictures

 

Chiquita bananas,

 

those Greek lovers

 

running late,

 

Little Village, Greektown

 

so many men's night faces fading out.

 

Wash cleanse in me.

 

I'm no Sylvia Plath

 

in an oven image of death

 

I resuscitate; I'm still alive.

  

 

Sweet Nectar (V2)

 

Daddy wants to see a hummingbird.

 

Ruby-throated hummingbird

 

devil in feathers,

 

Illinois baby come to me,

 

challenge my feeder

 

sip up, drain nectar,

 

no straw needed.

 

You are a master of your craft.

 

My thumb, your measurements

 

your brain 1-grain size

 

white rice the same as mine.

 

Your vision impeccable

 

clean your glasses thick and sticky,

 

murky migration into your

 

miracle little boy

 

prove 2 me you

 

are the real Wild Bill Hickok

 

dancing with your Calamity Jane

 

tick tock, a year there, year back,

 

3,000 miles across the saltwater

 

the route to Mexico, traveler

 

landing South America,

 

shake the dice, toss them

 

you bandit.

 

Will you return hummingbird

 

daddy is on the blender,

 

mixing new formulas

 

bright new color nectar.

 

 

 

Rochdale College

 

Freedom School, I Exiled in Time

 

Toronto, Canada (1972)

 

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

 

Chased by this wild, I was a black wolf of time

 

freedom extinguished me-

 

I died on borrowed time,

 

I died on hashish,

 

I died on snorting cocaine,

 

I died on the “H” man, heroin,

 

LSD, acid passed around hallucinated me

 

into Disneyland without my house slippers.

 

I nearly jumped 18 floors without hemp,

 

straight down breaking through plate glass,

 

Jesus’ invisible was my invincible Superman.

 

I nearly died listening to

 

American Woman, Guess Who,

 

they feed me downers for my overdose.

 

I nearly died in a small room

 

balling an unknown little bitch from Montreal.

 

All those little pills in dresser drawers, yellow, pink, and red.

 

I nearly died, Yonge Street, with hippy beads,

 

leather purse, belt, fake gold chain, and small pocket change.

 

I went the way I didn’t know where to go,

 

searching for heaven ending at the entrance

 

hells gate, Mount Pleasant Cemetery.

 

Let me fluoresce, splatter red on the asphalt

 

of my exiled heart.

 

Let me follow the freedom school,

 

Summerhill, England, free love.

 

(Note: Rochdale College was patterned after Summerhill School-

 

Democratic “freedom school” in England founded in 1921

 

by Alexander Sutherland Neill with the belief that the school

 

should be made to fit the child, rather than the other way around.)

  

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON