You treat me like soiled underwear.

I work my way through.

I gave up jitterbug dancing, that cha-cha-chá,

all my eccentric moves, theatric acting, poetry slams.

I seek refuge away old films, nightmares

you jumping from my raspberry Geo Chevy Tracker

repeat you stunt from my black 2002 S-10 Chevy truck, Schaumburg, IL.

I toss tarnished photographs out windows of hell

seek new selfies, myself.

I’m a rock-in-roll Jesus, a damn good poetry man,

talent alone is not enough storage space to strip

you away from my skin, distant myself from your

ridicule, those harsh words you can’t take back

once they are out like Gorilla Glue, as Carl Sandburg spoke about.

I’m no John Lennon want to be;

body sculptured David Garrett, German violin masterpiece,

nor Ace Hardware, Midwest, CEO.

All I want to be respected in heart of my bright sun,

engaging these shadows endorsing these gray spots in my life.

Send me away from these drum beats that break me in half,

jungle thunder jolts dislodging my heart

popping my earlobes over the years,

scream out goodbye.

No more stepping on me cockroach style,

swatting me, a captured fly.

                                                               ~Michael Lee Johnson

                                                               Itasca, USA