Brian P. Johnson






The words started to decay
as they sat in my mouth,
waiting for deliverance.
Lying on the back of my tongue,
on deformed bumps,
marinating in sour,
like truth.
They came, at last,
skipping stones across the surface,
never breaking.
The meaning was lost,
and their only proof…
the ripples and waves,
reaching out without sound.
You cannot hear the world sigh,
unless you stop screaming.







The magnificent bastard
stands proud,
scratching at random
scruff all over,
seventy decibel whisper.
Opinions in concrete
truths made universal,
he stumbles, and grunts.
At least, that’s what I imagine,
of days long past.
Binge drinking,
walls dressed in tar and
draped in dripping vulgarity,
long legs and loose lips,
enough to make a nun blush.
Quick talkers,
and quick fingers.
I sometimes confuse his name,
with a Major League pitcher
just for shits and grins.
I think it’d be fun,
to see him out on the mound
in front of forty thousand people
on a Tuesday afternoon
in ninety degree weather
eighty three percent humidity
and a few stratus clouds…
He’d grab a mic,
and address the melting masses,
swimming in fermented alterations.
‘Why the hell are you here?’
‘Let’s grab some scotch,
go to the track,
and find some fine cubans!’
He’d drop his chinos,
plant a vertical smile,
and take a shit on the infield.
One American icon,
smearing himself
on another.
‘Play ball!’
I could almost swear
it happened…







Meditations With Dying Crops

It’s pissing outside
the world singing splatters
this grey and brown fog beckons…
A passionate dance with mist hands
silent screams, waking dreams
corn husks for fingers
the smell pungent…
A brazen smile materializes
on the wind,
then retreats,
perhaps just a thought in passing.
It all looks like a Picasso suicide.
Blue dripping here, a nose over there,
and the geese are saying
I can hear ’em.
But, they’ll be back,
when the smells
down south
get too strong
in the summer heat,
and all reason
has left
this planet.









Brian Johnson is trapped in the middle of nowhere (Wisconsin), not quite understood, but, then again…what artists are? He writes, draws, paints, takes photos, creates, reads, breathes, and he has far too many ideas and concepts flying around in his brain….He’s in the process of starting his own 3d printing manufacturing business. He’s a father and a husband, and he loves what both of those mean to him. Trying to reinvent himself at this time. He loves the surreal and absurd, and he’s constantly trying to determine his purpose in this vast, beautiful, wonderful, terrible, and confusing Universe.


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