Poetry by Michael Lee Johnson

 

Native I Am, Cocopa (V2)

 

Now once great events fading
into seamless history,
I am 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, remnants of 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 mother proud.
I am parchment from animal earth.

 

 

-2008-

 

(R-2014)

 

 

Memories of Winnipeg

And Crazy Eight Bar (V2)

 

I am drunk, isolated,
and horny,
I stumble into "The Crazy Eight
Bar" and it was not my lucky charmed night.
Flirting with Indian women, delusional
with my white ass superiority,
I am doing card tricks,
end up getting my guts
rib cage kicked out.
Métis Indians circle me in a corner
no facial war paint on
no Indian war bonnets on.
I am down eating floor dust of native history,
and the steel needle toe boots
keep coming up fast, heavy into my ribcage.
One-half lung is out, the other half collapsed.
I am seeing vision of Jesus Christ.
I am crawling to my car half-dead, barely breathing.
Collapsed lungs, head lying on that steering wheel
somehow, find the nearest hospital.
I spit blood. I puke Apple Jack wine on surgeons.
My tan suit jacket is ruined; I piss my white pants.
Life is shaded like purple summer daisies.
So I learned, when a stranger is in strange town
find a place where your color fits your face,
never cheat at cards.

 

 

-2008-

 

(R-2014)

 

 

Busy at Work

 

Busy at work,

after the bad news:

memo: “your daughter died”-

I see her words

scattered in silent

tears,

scribbled

over the desk

top calendar,

partially dried.

 

 

-2008-

 

 

Jasper (V2)

 

Old Irving Park,
Chicago neighborhood
Jasper lives in a garret
no bigger than a single, bed.
Jasper, 69, smokes
Lucky Strike non-filtered cigarettes.
He dips Oreo cookies in skim milk.
Six months ago
the state revoked
his driver’s license-
between the onset
of macular degeneration,
gas at $4.65 a gallon,
and late stage emphysema,
life for Jasper has stalled out
in the middle lane
like his middle month
social security check, it is gone.
There is nothing academic about Jasper’s life.
Today the mailbox journey is down
the spiraling stairwell, midway,
he leans against the wall.
Deep breathes from his oxygen tank.
Life is annoying with plastic tubes up his nose.
Relief, back in the attic, without the tank,
the Chicago Cubs are playing on the radio.

 

Enjoyment at last, Jasper leans back in his La-Z-Boy recliner.
He reaches for a new pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes.
Jasper grabs a cool Budweiser beer from his mini-fridge.

 

 

-2008-

 

(R-2014)

 

 

Goldfish (V2)

 

Goldfish
rolls over
slowly like
an old tanker
or retired
Navy vessel
about to sink -
belly up,
bloated,
bug-eyed,
tail kick
sailors
last solute-
flush, passes on.

 

 

-2008-

 

(R 2014)

 

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