dejohnson - textual...

Art that speaks...now & to the future

here are textual excerpts soon available in dejohnson's "Texts for Something"...

I am I

I am
all at once

Someone
I never was

never I
who someone
et al. am I

(originally from Three Poetic Variations)

* * * * * * *

In the beginning...

In the beginning
living life is there

no worth,
but you are won

Cut for stone
fair as I know

strive,
birth giving
end the din

In the end
there is no life
worth living

but your own

(originally from Three Poetic Variations)

* * * * * * *

Poem X

Don't get t(w)o rapped up

In yo(u)re (I)-deals

Fo©(us) more

On (t)He .GIF(t)S y(o)u s(p)eek

* * * * * * *

The Mobius Trip Side Out

Reading poems half retained, sketched quickly as musical notes in stone;
etched in my mind, sigh…reflected on a screen, I type…

…no backup - only my dreams - sitting out of placemat laundry automaton

Hard drive, left the keys in the car, she came to take them away,
disappeared past the upside-down hill

Trinkets of my memories, loose-leaves floating down in stacks of autumn,
strewn about catgut air flyers, rocky footfalls, my favorite,
these are a refuge, garbage left at my responsive inability to decide
which of them is unimportant

They never call me back
I see them as I walk past the clinic, crying on benches with their children,
devoid of feelings, all but one, alone, weeping, screaming for her raiment,
small face, not there

Wooden, I return, hand-in-hand-in-hand with my soul, a faceless beauty I admired from youth, alike

Her flowing hair, falls from the balcony, calling, ruby-red lip zone fire,
again I am not there

Search, count, hunt, research, rewrite, having left long ago,
can't find my way, overt the blank stairs, horses in the fields afar

Cars, stars, bars surround me, there they are, vaguely outside the window,
smeared by rain and the smells of wings, fluttering

Little child smiles, unreachable, crawling, pulling at my arm,
tugging at the warmth inside

I sit at the top, in the back, interrupted, seeking, suddenly the pages are empty,
I have removed all of the words within a single key, stroke distant instantaneous, tumultuous;
I fervently, feverishly fondle the wires and papers, colors fly, halls of lucid maturations

Fading from my open eyes, last viewed from a catwalk where sweating, sweetening,
dove-crested satirists paint, slipping their feet into sipping shoes waiting, materializing,
there for them on the grate below, above a dames' jean photo, graphic imposter

Aggregate, following one following another flowing into a corner, falling thoughts of my own,
pulling them from me, ripping, tearing them from my spiraling notebook

Watching over my shoulder, excuse me, these are my words, are you quite done yet?

Take them from me, if you must, the blank page is held together with my words,
my hand, still... (cont)