they told you to have the operation it had to be total--down to the bone, I listened to you cry that night, in your room with the light from the porch painting your heaving portrait in shadows, after they cut your breast off and left you disfigured by a scar that ran diagonally from your sternum to your ribs a pregnant sn
I know how it feels, baby, I've been there, watched the madness drunk the blues like wine from a green bottle with a fancy label, I've watched the blood drip drip drip from my soul and had no care to stitch the wound or stop the pain, just accepting the shit, bleeding out like medieval doctors trying to release the t
"hi Johnny, you remember me? I wanted to call and tell you I'm doing fine. I'm married now and I got a kid. I wanted to let you know I turned out alright." it was strange to hear her voice it had been years and a lifetime away a little girl from the bricks I barely remembered her, a tall skinny girl that worn her
Thanks everyone, but really, buy the book. I need the cash. Coming soon, from Bob Bryan, independent film-maker, in Graffitti Verite' volumes 6-10, A five part documentary on American Poetry. Mr. Bryan's work has been shown at the Cannes Film Festival. In August of this year, in Long Beach Ca. I spent several hours being interviewed by Bob for inclusion in the up-coming series. In the pre-screening of the raw interview I have recieved "rave" revie
every few days my friend from Oregon stops by to call his little girl--it’s painful, hurtful, cruel, and precious in a moment like birth, he’s a hard son-of-a-bitch works with his hands drifts from here to there, town to town, carpenter in this one, painter in the next, but she’s his tender spot, his heart and he knows sh
"To All My Dead Babies" is now on sale at Amazon.com. Buy it now, it makes a great Christmas present! J.
when I was thirteen my mom got sick from smoking she had lung disease and couldn't work in the restaurant anymore. we moved into a government project and lived on disability and military survivor benefits, the money took a while and we lived on pork and beans, it wasn't too bad, it was stable and the rent would
Poets at a table possess a moment each a sore as blistered as herpes or ebola, a special psychosis in each, but all are bloody from the tireless surviving of bullshit trying to pass itself off as authentic living, odd strange fellows letting the rotted edges of the plastic cow society saw our bones until our spirits are armless amputee
I'm not sure what you're really angry about. Angry for what they did or for what you didn't do? Abuse of charity is a symptom of greater ills than selling your food stamp card for drugs--although, I hardly think the majority of people fit your example. Adaquate food does not equal adaquate nutrition, nor are all cases allocated equally. A single person on a fixed income of 600.00 recieves 10.00 per month. I work as a social worker here. I know th
the rage isn't bad--but hardly informed. j.
There is an address in the acknomledgement page. I would be more than happy to autograph it! Thanks for everything. j.
Ok, all you fans of Johnny. Pre-sale first editions available now at http://www.lulu.com -- type johnny Masuda in the search function and it will take you directly to the book. Remember, it makes a great gift for the one's you love or maybe the one's you don't. Make Johnny's Christmas one to remember. Leave copies like coffee table bombs lying around for your in-
when you're born and bred into the shit of living with one foot in hell and the other at death's door you get used to gut punches that leave you curled up in a fetal ball praying for death to come like a gift from Santa, whether it's the police or some other punk, if you squeak weak, there's a bowl of soup and a mouth full of broken
I don't want anyones pity. Fuck that. I want their rage. This isn't about one-up-manship. I have no desire to minimize anyones pain. But there is a collective pain that is endemic and the powers that be have no understanding when they prescribe their cures for the ills of poverty. And I'm no young man, unless you consider fifty young.
It has been a part of my world all my life. I grew up in a project in LA. One of a handful of white families in the vast wasteland of South Central LA. Yeah, everything you've read about the uglies in my poems is real. I couldn't make this shit up. Reality is truly stranger than fiction.
it's your world too.
what is it about being hungry? I don't get it, why would food be a problem for someone? isn't it everywhere. fuck you, if that's what you think. I'm sick of all the know-it-alls that have all the answers for why we aren't the best and the brightest. the droids never spend days with the ache of hunger in their bellies<B
some people might throw up their hands or stomachs in disgust when I read my words out loud, they attribute the tenor of my writers voice to be foul of grace and beauty leaving corpses and beer bottles scattered like trash on the lawn, but I am of the people of the fray--we are earth's painful groaning and bleeding re
all my friends that have women living in them, are seeking shelter from the storm, it's a hollow cry that kind of grows into a groan and then a howl, but there's no more growls--just man whimpers. Moskowitz talks shit to his dick when he's pissing in the urinal, "don't fail me tonight, you mother-fucker." his wife measures love in t
we don't have any real heroes, Frankenfuter in heels and pink boa is still the sexiest man alive, but there's no wild man standing or screaming, protesting, fighting to set the world free, we call corporate takeovers and the expansion of oil fields-- liberation, democratization, freedom, free to be oppressed. r
I got a girl I don't want to see she blinds me and leaves me muttering shit while I wander down dirty alleyways looking for a place to hide from my dick, it's talking shit too, making me think of all those times she gave in and gave it to me, bitching about what a bad man I am for touching her that way, in the car, in pu
thanks, I'm looking forward to spending everyone's money. It makes a great gift, too. j.
Thanks, I'm blushing and stuff. You buy the book and I'll be your boy toy....lol. j.
two rows in front of me, at Sunday Mass, she sits with her sister, short raven red hair frames a small elfin face, she usually wears something fashionable, but comfortable, I study the way she breathes and the curve from the back of her arm to the small of her waist and the quiet flare of her hips, it's the scent of her to
you disgust me your white pinafore world of good deeds and near misses vacationing in the land of the ghetto merry-go-round for a moment you taste the asphalt and marvel at the deprivation, sorrow and pain like dipping your toes in the cold bite of winter waters then it's a report at school or a tale over scones
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