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Cerebral Contents:
Update for 05.13.08:
Male Model by Phil Doran
Set to Replay by Willie Smith
Backsliding by Cynthia Ruth Lewis
Tree by G. David Schwartz
05.05.08:
Disintegration by Don Hucks
Five Feet and Building by Joel Van Noord
Grocery Aisle by Richard Lighthouse
Cross the Road by Ashok Niyogi
04.29.08:
Lookalikes by Phil Doran
Dinner by Brandi Wells
The Modern Covenant by Daniel E. Wilcox
Death by Onions by Michael Frissore
04.21.08:
Future's Children by Kimberly Raiser
Identity Theft by George Anderson
The Datists by Adam Engel
A Great Deal of Money by Justin Hyde
04.14.08:
Mr. Papaya and Dale by Eric Suhem
California by Caroline Imreibe
Aftermath of Vehement Argument #1,068 by Cynthia Ruth Lewis
Trip-Hammer Vitality by Lisa Nickerson
04.07.08:
The Florence of Basel, or Why Readers of Nietzsche Need to Read Burckhardt by Jeff Crouch
Slideshow by Miles J. Bell
Friends of the Poet by Sean C. Bowen
Picture Perfect by Leah Baldwin
03.24.08:
The Streak by Jeremy Hendrix
Grab Your Butts by Emme Hor
Far Away by Ashok Niyogi
Staring Down a White-Tailed Doe by Aleathia Drehmer
03.17.08:
The Hairbrush by Vernard Kennedy
Dog Days of Winter by Niall Berkeley
Poem From My Grave by Michael Lee Johnson
Mashed Potatoes and Hamburgers by Matt Finney
03.10.08:
Hard Work by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Jetty Cake Pigs by J.D. Nelson
I'm Quiet in Bed by Moctezuma Johnson
Tequila Shakes by Richard Lighthouse |
Poem From My Grave
by Michael Lee Johnson
Don't bring the rosary beads
It’s too damn late for doing repetitions.
Eucharist, I can handle the crackers and wine;
I love the Lord just like you.
Catholicism circles itself with rituals—
groundhogs and squirrels dancing with rosary beads,
naked in the sun and the night, eating the pearls
and feeling comfortable about it.
Rituals and rosary beads are indigestible
even the butterflies go coughing in the farmer's cornfields.
Cardinal George, Chicago, would choke on the damn things;
some of his priests would have thought it a gay orgasm or piece
remote found in scripture from Sodom & Gomorrah.
But my bones in ginger dust lie near a farm in DeKalb, Illinois
where sunset meshes corn with a yellow gold glow like rich teeth.
My tent is with friends there we said prayers privately like silent
moonlight. Farmers touch the face of God each morning after just
one cup of Folgers coffee Columbian blend,
or pancakes made with water and batter, sparse on the sugar.
Sometimes I would urinate on the yellow edge of flowers,
near the tent, late at night, before the hayride, speak
to the earth and birds like gods.
Never did I pull the rosary beads from my pocket.
It's too late, damn it, for rosary beads and repetitions.

______________________________________
Mr. Michael Lee Johnson lives in Chicago, IL after
spending 10 years in Edmonton, Alberta Canada during the Vietnam War era.
He is a freelance writer, and poet. He has been published in USA, Canada,
New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Fuji, Nigeria Africa, India, United
Kingdom. Michael Lee Johnson is a member of Poets & Writers, Inc and
Directory of American Poets & Fictions Writers. He is a member of
The Illinois Authors Directory. He has published 145 poems in 2007 to
date. He is the author of The
Lost American: From Exile to Freedom. Visit his website
at poetryman.mysite.com.
He is now the publisher and editor of Poetic
Legacy, which is now open for submissions.
posted 03.17.08.
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