Right, Write.

This is something to write about for someone who will read it.
[Chris Johnson's writing journal]

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Ask me, ask me, ask me...

Of Body and Feet Crossed

If you could tilt your head back and
capture the moan you would like to emit
before it leaves your throat,
would you keep it somewhere in your chest

or would you store it under your tongue
in the acres of air there
just waiting for some company
and excited for the visitor of your sound,

just like my fingers are evoked by your lips
and the wetness they withhold,
choked back or swallowed
with your head tilted skyward, spineward.

A Response to a Response from You 

Poetry Note:

I have a new poem, “A Response to a Response from You”, over at Kid-Scissor Hybrid.

Check it out!

Ninth Heartstring

All of the facts and missed connections
and the open windows keep us safe

from too much cool breeze—we sometimes breathe
intentionally, like accidents

orchestrated for musicality.
Take this sneeze you timed so perfectly

that you were excused at four-thirty
exactly, the moment on the dot,

not passed slightly, but right on—write on,
the ninth hour came so promptly, surely

we have not missed the notes of your smile
and quip of your walk. There’s so much time

to hark back to Beethoven, to talk
of the cordiality of our speech

and our fingers on the point and the
smell of mornings with coffee you brewed.

The Same Glass Of Water

I think I’m still drinking the same glass of water
that I drank from in 2008
when I woke up with a hangover
and was unsure if my lover would love me that day—

or was it me
who was wavering?
Uncertainty hit hard in the later years
of high school.

I was in my twenties when I finally heard
someone else say that kids have to make life decisions too early.
Like, I was about as aware of myself then
as a hungry duck is aware of the human holding the bread.

There is so much time
to just wade around the pond a bit longer,
I don’t see the need to commit
to this beach.

Ain’t it something,
reading too much into subtext?
It can do wonders; it will change your life.
There’s a word for this, hiding behind another word.

Season Green

If only summer was a season,
then I would waltz in begging breeze
to find the partner worth the dancing
move about with gracious ease,

but show the meadows we aren’t jealous
and only lovers left alive
in case there’s question of our longing
to look into each other’s eyes.

The green has met me past your backside
to hold our hands between the trees,
so do not hate me for our turning
and our waltzing in the breeze.

Hearts and Socks

Isn’t this a foot in a puddle,
a hole in the heel of the shoe;

stray hair, isn’t any surface a home?
Bald patch, who picked you?

Aren’t we bare here,
just faces and legs and damp toes;

or just lay it all out on sleeves
and pant legs for the fashion of it.

This isn’t the last storm cloud
or even the last raindrop:

perhaps a speck of skin
showing and shed and living on.

The temptation is to think of … as something we make
Michael Warner

Let me sleep tonight,
headlights tracking left-to-right—
keep track, dry throated

Standing In Front Of Mirrors And Poking Bruises

Laid, being naked is enough
There is tomorrow morning,
and today is dead.

A Poem for the Shards We Picked Up

The falling glass won’t think it’s so lonely
in a short time; the kiss on the cheek, the lipstick stain,

still holds onto a memory of wholeness.
Think you’re cold and think of this:

there were three perfectly fine icecubes that just went to waste!
Promise to be more careful next time; we’re all over the place!

In actuality, this is the equivalent of a big drip;
no biggie, really. We’ll rally. We’ll quench.

This is us together wishing for hydration and hangovers.
This is the moment glass meets floor.

The Interview

You said the first line came together too quickly;
I said your body is the morning and I can sleep in.
You said the coffee drips too slowly;
I said the poem came together in the beginning,

but it really came together in the end.

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