5 x KENT JOHNSON
Boy on the Rocks
At Rhodes, in a steady drizzle, I fade away from the tour
And make my way down the cobblestone street
Towards the harbor until I reach the water's edge.
The drifting clouds obscure the sunlight,
Making the sea the color of the rolling gray sky.
I remove my shoes and socks, roll up my pants
And gingerly step into the cold Aegean sea
Where the freezing water laps against my ankles
And my feet recoil from the hard, sharp stones.
I shiver as I stand here, just another foolish tourist
Desperate for a lasting memory, realizing I am
Merely one of millions who cruise the Greek Isles
In search of history and meaning, mostly from windows
Of uncomfortable buses and at staged dinner shows --
But as the sun breaks through the water sparkles
As if on fire and with its heat on my face -- for just
A moment I feel that I've become history straddling the world,
Head ablaze against the suddenly blue.
Anachronista
The kid
with the ducktails
showboats for
the girls dangling
their bare legs
off the wall
outside the Dairy Queen.
The faded
blue neon
sign buzzes
in harmony
w/ the buzz
of the June bugs.
Two drifters doze
at the edge
of the wheat field
across the road.
One rests his head
on a golf bag
with a putter, a shovel,
a bat
and a nine iron,
Clubs he has caddied
through rail yards
and flop houses all
across America.
Listen Fidel! Listen Hugo!
Its false
to imagine
such failure
swept up in some
organized happiness!
Listen Shafik! Listen Daniel!
See how the hobo awakens
to the laughter of the young girls.
The Day Otis Redding Died
The day Otis Redding died
The women at work were inconsolable.
Orders piled up, unfilled, unloaded.
The drivers, heads bowed, mumbled,
Leaned against the open bays;
Dangled their legs over the loading docks.
The day Otis Redding died
The women were inconsolable.
Betsy was sick and gave me her chicken salad.
Ramona's wails echoed from the ladies room.
Wild eyed, Inez threw herself to the ground
And wept "Oh no! Oh, God, no!"
So stricken were the women
The day Otis Redding died.
Day Trading
Tutankhamen awoke to Ra that shone
Through a ragged dentation of battered stone.
No bath drawn, no shit pot, no oils.
No servants, no taster, no pressed robes,
The pomegranate and apricots spoiled.
No room service, no door man, no concierge.
No chauffeur much less a fleet of ships.
Had the universe overslept?
No. All his treasures had been stolen
And if Tut wanted to see 'em
He'd have to hop the subway
To the Metropolitan Museum.
Pidgin Heart
I be ambivalent . . . .
ono talent
but such a liar
(& no fire
& guile.)
you smile?
not smart.
