One Riff.

Come down the stairs.
Take off that robe.
Get a chair.
Pull it close.
Whispering hands.
Silvery toast.
The best thing the coast could offer.
Was your hand.
Now.
We sit.
On the swing.
Conjuring.
The only.
Song We sing.



Garrett Johnson.

Song 12.

I'm going to the store.
Pick up some cigs.
Get a Poster of Uma Thurman.
A record by The Smiths.
Morrisey.
Get a milk shake.
you can share it with me.




Garrett Johnson.

Ash flower.

Cold showers.
Warm hands.
Everything gone.
tell the self it’s fine.
When it’s not.
I’m not.
But i’m Ok.
Not the only one.
Raining tar.
Running in noire.
Fun times.



Garrett Johnson

Polite shadows.

Rocket fuel.
Hello.
I’m ok.
Not really.
But that’s fine.
Not important.
Too important.
Waste away.
Never wasted.
Arm rest.
Too tired.
And a big ******* montage of heck fire.



Garrett Johnson.

Feelings at the theater.

Take your life.
Take the soap.
Take the cigarettes.
Take regrets.
Take emotions.
Take the lotion.
Take the gun.
Take the pines.
Take the water.
Burn.



Garrett Johnson.

World.

The Door.
Awakens in the heat.
Of angst.
Discourage.
Rebellion.
High flying.
And uncontrollable control.
The Archimedes of Ignorance.
And the Diogenes of change.



Garrett Johnson.

1:40.

Pulp Fic poster.
Dylan.
Lennon.
Cobain.
Green sticks.
Some smiths.
Hendrix.
Fear and Loathing.
Morrison.
Dig yourself.
A black lagoon.




Garrett Johnson.

Neon Sigma.

Paul Newman took my cool hand.
He said he would double discount down on everything that’s bought Man.







Garrett Johnson.

Oct 15, 66.

One of those nights.
Where the air is slick.
Where everything can be heard from miles away.
Like a tremolo stealthing it’s way around.
From every knock from door.
From every word from lip.
Form every star deciding to die in a super nova.
You know.
Those nights.
Sure I do.
No.
No you don’t.



Garrett Johnson.

7:30.

Foggy portal.
Frozen air.
Swamp carrier.
Solid cinder.
Sleet table.
Holed wall.
Red tomb.
All for nothing.



Garrett Johnson.

Quiet air disintegration.

The clay boy of a first responder.
Pondering along on a long night.
She’s cool in a dolly rocker.
Jeweled blue.
And silent white.




Garrett Johnson.

Don’t suspect a thing bud.

Grandma has the soup.
Grandma has the cigarettes.
Grandma has the guns in the shed.
Why the hell would you think that.


Garrett Johnson.

Hallow Canvas.

You will have seen it shut.
Traumatized.
Mortified.
In muck.
Realizing it's the only combatant of it's astronaut collection.
The real slow of the slow.
Hired to build a balloon palace in plastic.
Wavering.
Hovering in total silence.
Though it doesn't know any better.
Still.
You cut it's head off.
Taste the innards.
Tastes like cinnamon on a yellow rustic cup.
I think it's going to be ok.
We just need a little hug.


Garrett Johnson.

Breeze so lovely.

The chair.
The wall.
The air.
The floor.
Despair.
Nothing more.
The blankets.
The soreness.
The aches.
The blankness.
The wants.
The needs.
Flowers and weeds.
But ******* the breeze is so lovely



Garrett Johnson.

Hunter Thompson Blues.

Corpse.
One in a black room.
Aoxomoxoa.
Plays again.
And again.
The voices.
The.
Words.
Snap out of it man.
Oh.
What is this.



Garrett Johnson.

Airplane cig.

You look at her.
Who looks at you.
Who looks at him.
Looking at his drink.
But also looks at you.
Then looks at you again.
You then look at her.
Who looks you.
Who looks at her.
Who looks at you.
Who is looking at her shirt.
Who thinks you like her shirt.
Which you do.
And her.
Who looks at you.
And smiles.



Garrett Johnson.

Dream of all time.

Immaculate in the early hours.
The roads.
Lit with death.
Heavenly soft.
Lips.
On cheek.
Regretless.
Low eyes in the slow air.
Oh how lovely the sky.
Misty.
With all the love to show for it.



Garrett Johnson

Inquietude Drachma.

Saturday morning- Repaired by a smile, Found a leg in my cereal, took a walk.
Saturday night- Used a headphone splitter, Starred into the eyes of a spiral, and Died.
Sunday morning- Woke in an infinite haze, visited Saturn on a surf board, and drank some cold lava with the girl across the street.
Sunday night- probably die again, Listen to Pink Floyd, and write this down.
down.
down.


Garrett Johnson.

Blueberry tears.

We saw through the eyes.
The electric highway.
The lips overtone.
The winds.
Celestial.
Neon Bohemia.
Cathartic Breath of air on neck.
The melting of the surface.
Suffice in the face of thee ocean.


Garrett Johnson.

Endeavors of the night.

3 in mourn.
Queen Jane Approximately.
65 Dylan getting the better of me.
The steam’s a little wired.
Letting all of it in.
Room at the Morrison.
And a drink of apple sauce medicine.
Good enough.
Terrible.
Never better.


Garrett Johnson.

Poem for something in a different dimension.

Infinite dandruff on the leaf in my soup.
Caught on fire in a concrete water bottle.
Pulling chair.
Woolen eye shut.
The shirt pocket soldiers full of matches.
You say what to the girl.
She says yes.
The coffee club on shoot n up agrees.
Disintegrates into bark.
Stick shoes.
And mossy doors.


Garrett Johnson.

Bouncing light shows.

O.
Ov.
Ove.
Over.
Overd.
Overdr.
Overdri.
Overdriv.
Overd­rive.
Yes.
A little Interstellar Overdrive.



Garrett Johnson

Syd.

At the lips.
Take a down to Kings Road.
At the left.
Take a left at Kings Road then take another left.
At the sign take a right down to Kings Road.
Just to end up where you started.
At the lips.



Garrett t Johnson.

Turquoise hadphone splitter.

Turned and looked at me.
Said that the end was good.
Turned and looked out the window.
Rumble like The Velvet Underground then head against my shoulder.
She must of really liked the end of that song.


Garrett Johnson.

Al Petroleum.

Fazing in n out.
The flicker.
The whisper.
She's here.
You took too much man.
You took too much.
Who said that.


Garrett Johnson.

Drums of force weeping.

Wooden stresses.
Along the mongers and the cages.
The sea green forgery.
Bagged to the top.
Lynched at the top.
Chained through the lot of others.
Thou the wicked of brothers, sisters and mother's.
Oh the horror.
Of Syd.
Throw it in midair.


Garrett Johnson.

Night.

This night will be the last night of our lives.
Mother, I'm thirsty.
Role call.
Freeze in the heat.
Waiting for your heart to beat out of your chest.
Moving.
Keep moving until you're out of breath.
Millions of bumps.
Cattle car.
Thoughts of JOY on our fresh new start will last us through the night.
Run.
Run.
Until your bones ache in the sun.
Until your brain overloades with fear.
And your shadow no longer appears.
Cry for your brothers, sisters.
Father's, mother's
Lovers and others.
Cry.
Cry.
For your tears have evaporated into the air with the innocent.
Strip.
Down to your skin.
To the flesh your no longer own.
To the body that holds no hope.
Striped garbs, pants, shirt, jacket.
Rations of black coffee, soup and bread.
Work or crematorium.
Welcome to Auschwitz.


Garrett Johnson.

All the way there.

60 down the main road.
Throw it all away.
Tossed in the wind like a bag.
And hovers away like the smoke from a cigarette.
The whole lot of  1,304 miles of bliss.
And find that someone that's groovy enough to groove with you.
All the way there.

Never tneconnI.

Desert lake.
Invisible fallout.
Falling out on a infinite ride of high.
Goodbye new world.
Vast hauntings on the inner globe.
Slow.
Subtle.
Seriousness nowhere to be found.
Sad.
But pleasant.


Garrett Johnson.

Old and Tattered.

Stuck cold.
Like the vicious snot in my throat.
Nestled platoon of dew.
Molding the tunnel.
Configurated Japanese combatants.
Planted in the deepest of the deepest.
Halls.
The twitching of subtle brasses.
Lightly hugged by breeze.
It's nice up here.
Balance in intimacy.
Of such is feared.
Too young of Neil to use such diction to describe such another half.
For only fiction can thread through these lines.
As intimacy is scarce in the lands I walk.
The melody sits sweetly.
Like a whisper.
So clear like a resting lake.
So pure As the calm eyes that appear from the tree line and sing into the soul.
Standing here all alone.
The lingering glow of something that was.
Into something that wasn't.
Or something that never was.
Gentle like the strings "Down by the river".
An acoustic outcast to live for.
Burnout in a sanctum covered pine trees.
Cinnamon water, and blueberries.
Folded cough drop wrappers to be used as cigarettes.
Woolen blankets.
Mirror.
Year long beard.
Three year hair to the shoulders.


Garrett Johnson.

Lithium Leakage.

It crawls.
Has big headphones to hear all the details.
It's monotonous in every way lonely.
It has internal bridges collapsing at all times.
Uses it's vessel in the the 21st century.
But it's soul lives before it's time.
Has all and nothing to live for.


Garrett Johnson.

Car hood at 1 in the morning.

Sitting at the table.
Quietly.
Smoke rising from the knuckles.
Nicotine masking the scent of oh so wretched tears.
Maddening the area.
The atmosphere.
The uncertain complexity of her flannel shirt layering over the windshield.
Passing all those lovely moments of sharing cigarettes on the car hood at one in the morning.


Garrett Johnson.

Talking freely.

Please.
Talk to me.
I need that thought of.
Uh.
Nevermind.


Garrett Johnson.

Crashing on the couch.

You'll find your end.
In the river.
You'll find your end.
In the mountains.
You'll find your end.
In the mirror.
You'll find your end.
Living in your doubt.
Find it.
Now.


Garrett Johnson.

To me.

If you are the one who called my grandma saying I'm In Seattle.
I understand your style.
You've traveled 1,339.6 miles.
To one of my fav places.
Using a payphone.
Why?
I don't know.
Just to **** with me?
Maybe.
(I would like to talk, but if you Are my clone we might be talking right now)…..

Garrett Johnson.

Stalagmite eyes.

The dust filled palm trees.
In Fire as written.
The execution.
Their face.
Always well hidden.
Behind blooded mirrors.
And windows.
They have lost their head in the fire.
Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
A life well used.
Cemented in pine.
Lay on rug sinking in.
Never close.
Never intimate.
But always alive.


Garrett Johnson.

Conversation with some guy.

Have you ever killed anyone.
****, man we're going there already.
Well have you.
Yeah.
Who.
Charlie; in the war, had to **** him with my camera.
Oh, you were a war photographer.
Photographer, journalist, I've been a lot of things.
Are you part of the pine tree communist propaganda team.
Woe man, slow down.
Did you or did you not, meet with the monk of monkies in Massachusetts.
Hey man, your questions are a little too high caliber for my surf board.
I'm just trying to break some new ground here...well, what do you like to do.
Oh you know the casual acid flashbacks, Godzilla showings at the theater, um hanging out with some Samurai Chicks ya know, stuff like that.
Have you ever been to the mountains Mr._ ?
Well there was this one time when I was at this festival in Colorado, and this guy said he was going to hitchhike up to Woody Creek and he asked if any body wanted to join him, so I tagged along, he said his name was Chuck I think, yeah Chuck Manson, he went on about wanting to **** somebody but I didn't really think about it, he did play some music which was really good, it was very soulful.
(A heavy sigh)Can you recall where you were a few hours ago.
I was here.
What do mean you were here.
I've always been here, constructing this reality that you're sitting in right now.
(End Tape)
Goodbye.



Garrett Johnson.

The roof of Alcatraz.

Embodying the psychedelic lust of youth.
We stealthed our way into the ancient cinder block.
Old and moldy.
Cold.
We made our way to the top.
A cold breeze off the bay sea.
Pushing along her hair.
We sat in that cold night air.
Just watching.



Garrett Johnson.

Ginsberg Goggles.

Time that was Nice- Drive to Aberdeen, wander around, Look around, Run off from the group with you into the woods while it's raining, cause it's always raining.
Time that was pretty nice- Buy a drug dealer, erode a line into my arm, just to feel something, Cry some dust, then smoke it.
Time that was kind of wasted- Build a lonesome town, Ricky nelson can be mayor, burn scenery into my back using movie ink that was drained out of a camera that a shadow used.
Time that wasn't wasted at all- Staring at your Spider-Man poster, just to turn and see you kiss me.
Time that was enjoyed wasted but wasn't really wasted- writing this.



Garrett Johnson.

Why should I care.

It's another light house.
It's another light house.
One to **** your alliance.
On the front door.
Is the next level of violence.
The next terror of silence turn around.
Your beautiful with aliveness.
Quiet and alone tonight.
Nothing else to be.
Nothing else to see or hear.
There it was.
There it went.
Gone.
I don't.



Garrett Johnson.

Scouting Minerals with some pirates.

A while ago- Stopped and thought, drank some tea.
A little while ago- Watched American ******, read Fear and loathing in Las Vegas while watching the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas while on Lsd.
Some time ago- slept in, Slept with someone, listened to "Endless, Nameless" on repeat for four straight hours.
Not too long ago- HaD a DrEaM tHaT i CaN't ReMeMbEr, had an acoustic nightmare, melted the atmosphere of my brain with *****, and had a cancer attack.
A light year ago- Watched Live Leak while eating smores, more and more, more or less, she was *******, which was cool and all but I got a little scared.
A minute ago- typed the last line which isn't this line but is supposed to be, I guess.


Garrett Johnson.

Sad boy Eric.

Cloaked in sap.
Maple scent of her lips.
Fall asleep.
A cretaceous machine.
Spiral down into the unforgettable.
A nostalgic depression.
Felt before.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Forever float in the entertaining undesirable.
While holding hands.



Garrett Johnson.

A complete unknown.

Going down 120th in one of the classics.
Passing a ******* barrel on this slighted Sunday afternoon.
With a tub of acid heating up on the dash.
Dylan's "Like a rolling Stone" playing loud and Ruthless.
A mind filled with a heavy buzz.
No lying.
No harm or ill flying around.
Only the road.
Defying all the unknown that's abound.


Garrett Johnson.

A Neon Paris.

Here they come.
Here they are.
Again.
Those thoughts.
Worming themselves into the forefront.
Nesseling in the cold.
Black.
Corners of my brain.
Why won’t it stop.
Why can’t they learn to stop.
Like stranded in a sand sea.
They search.
Search.
Search.
And keep searching.
For what.
Some one.
Some place.
SOme taste, or color.
Some feeling.
Lost.
Some thing.
Anything.




Garrett Johnson.

Leviathan's storm.

It has come.
The apocalyptic overload.
Sworn down from the realms above.
Like the parting of the red sea backwards.
Comment allez-vous I ask.


Garrett Johnson.

Leather acid tests.

Wednesday- I'm back, went to San Fran, did some jenkem, I don't recommend, And I didn't make it.
7/4/19- Sat from a far, Watched the fire works alone while talking to my imaginary friend.
Friday- Woke up form an ether stupor, masculine, shot up some of grandma's finest neon soup.
7/7/19 around 5:00 pm- went to the community festival, had a cookie, blasted off into the outer reaches of space with a girl, and a guy.
A few hours later- met my clone.
The day after- Went to Idaho with the girl, made love in a barn, old fashioned rebel style.
7/15/19- Drove back to San Fran in my doctor's space can, Write, write, wrote, write some more.
.
,
.
Very sure we died here.



Garrett Johnson

A Kerouac Afternoon.

Penniless on a traded lie for a life.
Finally found in a hazel eye.
Walking around in the finest sky of nowhere.
An afternoon of series after series.
After serious reasons of grief.
Get a grip, man.
Out and displaced.
Creek.
Lying in mud.
More comfort when the blood settles at the bottom.
Old and torn.
Beat up some wolves.
Crawled while crying to my hole in the river.
One with the fishes.
And other earthly fuel.



Garrett Johnson.

Orange Victoria.

Before friday- ate some thorn pizza, smoke, watched some Doc Who.
Friday- battled with an unconscious ghost, hosted a party for most of my guests, one person came.
Yesterday- walked to the store, stepped in hot tar, got blisters under my fingernails.
Last night- soaked my blisters in psilocybin, saw Jim Morrison.
The morning after- woke up at 7, played on the guitar, had a smoke, had another smoke, watched the X-files.
Today’s evening- Stood in the same place for a while, I’m still here somehow, smoke, dishwasher, Lost my real leg in a fire.
Tomorrow- wrote all about it.
.
.
Well I guess I’m doing fine.






Garrett Johnson.

Glacial Coffee.

No Home.
Hung over Sideways.
Adventure.
All created mutants.
All pipe thoughts.
Blasted into the universe.
All to be alone.
Like the golden record.
Trying to prove drastic reasons for being alive.
Inside.
The being of life.
All by finding out why by reading today’s newspaper, and sipping a cup of glacial coffee.
Meanwhile I’m also in a car going 70.
On the highway to A certain shop in the middle of a forest in Seattle.
Hold on.
I’ve gotten off track.
I’ll be right back.






Garrett JOhnson.

Poseidon.

Yesterday- Blow out, kicked around, drink of water.
Day before yesterday- Hash browns, peyote, get your own tots monday.
Today- Ambien, gold fish, ******* off of Elvis Presley plate dish, it was jeweled.
Tomorrow- A Cobain chill out, hang out, take a walk, Smoke Kerouac plasma.
Day after tomorrow- Live a little, Make love in a field, because why not.
The day after that day that was tomorrow- a smoke, Chai tea, mellow out, Then lots of lsd but not too much.
Forever- write, write about this, write about that, and write some more.
Repeat.
Don’t repeat.
Yeah sure...go ahead and repeat.






Garrett JOhnson.