It was half past two
Bartender said Johnny
You got to move move move
So I looked over at you
I was watching you dance up there
Shaking it everywhere
All up in the air
I know you know
’cause I saw you watching me
I think you like it like that.
Baby I know I do.
We need to leave this place
Let’s get lost in some happiness
If that’s what they call it these days
My name is Johnny
So pleased to meet you honey
Now let’s go screw
Just leave your car here
It’ll be all right overnight
I’ll bring you back in the morning
Pleased to meet you
Darling let’s go screw
If that’s what they’re calling it these days
Here my tiny being lays within the whiteness of
this page. I tried using my fork to tiddle-wink
the words onto it – to tattoo them like a tiny
tear drop on a felon’s face. Failure, again,
my face cries and the whiteness glows on it –
ghostly face white with nothing to say. Words
tiddle-winked completely over – or – failed
to tiddle at all. Or should it be winked?
Should I know – with no words to show – at all?
My blank face and blank mind – so much less
than those others, who speak, and write – and never
leave white glowing trails from empty words
behind them. My glowing trails are blank spaces.
“Answer me, boy, answer me!” I don’t and I can’t
and I won’t! The words are gone – and I can’t
squeeze them out of a turnip. Perhaps if I
could boggle the words across the page and –
some might melt into it, saturating it through,
leaking into pages beneath. There’s always
pages beneath, pages hiding and waiting to
prove me blank, just waiting there, waiting
to strike when my aloneness is multiplying
numbers, like Yahtzee scores, always counting
words that aren’t ever there – not to me, but
it’s only a game, they say, they say – But
I say it is only a long, desperate, awkward
pause that shakes my soul beyond these bones –
and they say “Spit it out boy! Are you just
dumb? or Stupid” — haha – laughter laughter.
I’ll take my words, my turnip and felon tear and
climb down the hole – my away place – and hide.
Some day my page will flower like a turnip patch.
And my glowing spaces will be them – trailing
behind in dirty glowing spaces. And the spotted
baby deer will fill his tum with my
colorful memories…… my some day page.