Who the Hell Am I?!

featured in the poetry forum April 16, 2010  :: 0 comments

I’m a nobody looking to be a somebody in any way I can. Or perhaps a somebody that nobody but me notices. Either way, I can’t help but wonder why my words and day screams and insane rantings and ravings aren’t splashed across every page? Isn’t it just a travesty? A crying shame? Why must I suffer with the hunger and pain, with the knowledge that I should be a somebody that is something more than some sometimes piece of shit, lazy fuck? My mad dreams tell me so. My swirling gut tells me so. My whole being tells me so when it does twists and turns for no reason at all. What else could explain that empty feeling growing in my chest, in my mind, in my soul, in my art, that never seems to be satiated…sits thirsty and gnawing and there’s nothing I’ve found yet to shut it the fuck up.

Who the hell am I?! I’m a-knocking on 40’s door and still wondering why and when and how I got moved into the 35 – 50 demographic. Damn! I fear age. I fear the clock’s tickings and tockings and the days passing and the months falling and the years rolling and…and…and what’s that ache I’m feeling in my knee, in my wrist, in my stomach, in my temples, in my heart. And my almost-40 year old heart, it tells me to hurry this shit up ‘cos time is running out and wouldn’t you know it, bad tickers run in the family. Shit, why not have another smoke and give this some more thought?

Who the hell am I? A dreamer without a bed. A writer without a plot. A painter without a brush. A Midas without the touch. A bong without a load. A big fucking cock with no fucking pussy. Do I need to keep going? A rummy without a bottle? Or how ’bouta druggie without a jones? I got it…a whore without a john! Yeah, I like that one. Picture painted enough for you? I sure hope so.

Who the hell am I?! I’m Johnny Olson, that’s who the hell I am. And if the name rings a bell then you’re probably knocking on 40’s door…or more…too. You’re probably thinking… “Tell us who our next contestant is, Johnny Olson” “Well Bob, it’s Joe Shmoe! Joe Schmoe, come on down, you’re the next contestant on the Price Is-goddamned-Right!” Oh, and don’t be confused with the weasel friend of Superman, Jimmy Olsen. Jimmy/Johnny OLSEN/OLSON. That’s right, I’m Johnny Olson. Write it down, make a note of it. I’ll wait. I got all day night.

Bright & Easy

featured in the poetry forum December 11, 2009  :: 0 comments

O-o-h child, things are gonna get easier
O-o-h child, things’ll get brighter

I hope and pray these words ring true.

We are coming to a place
in this collective race in history
when we need some divinity
Our world is crumblin’
Our futures tumblin’
and the bright future that
was promised to me
just isn’t as bright and easy
as they said it would be
as they hoped it would be
when they sang…

O-o-h child, things are gonna get easier

When? When will they?

Sometimes there seems to be
nothin’ but trouble a’brewing
scrolling headline news crawls
scrolling in my mind…
useless wars, needless famines,
fat-cat economy crashes,
angry earth weather clashes
this global we that we be
in our collective entity
needs to see that…

O-o-h child, things’ll get brighter

I pray that this is so.

I pray every day
that every everything’s
are gonna get easier
are gonna get brighter
but I fear they must get harder
before they get easier
and I know they must get darker
before they get brighter
I know.
I know.
I know they must.
So I pray and I trust that…

O-o-h child, things are gonna get easier

I feel the shifting.
My spirit is lifting.
The overriding tides of
love and compassion
of harmony and peace
washes over me in divine waves

O-o-h child, things’ll get brighter

I am cleansed by the realization
that I am the love
I seek to feel
that I have the compassion
I need to heal
that I am the harmony
that makes me real
that I have the peace
I long to feel

it is me
it is you
it is we

lets believe that…

O-o-h child, things are gonna get easier
O-o-h child, things’ll get brighter

Right now…right now…

I know. I know they will.

Mad Circus

featured in the poetry forum November 6, 2009  :: 0 comments

This swirling illusion
is only a fusion
of creative energies
forming a synergy
which completely
transforms the ordinary
according to the
quintessential strategy
of transcending humanities
increasing mediocrity
by joyously
and drunkenly
embracing
this creative energy
and expressing living in
all its raw honesty
in this fusing unity
of collective communities
communicating
thru sandblasting
the senses
past these present tenses
creating and curating
this moment in time
that’s a timeless, weightless,
pageless, ageless
circus of madness
and rhymes.

The Whozit Who Knewszit

featured in the poetry forum September 4, 2009  :: 0 comments

The Whozit’s who knewzit don’t knowz it no more.
The Theyzit’s have done it and stolen the door.
The Themzit’s have moved Therezit’s to some faraway shore
while the Wezit’s can see it when knocked to the floor.

The secret for Wezit’s written on walls
penned by the Whozit’s who wants justice for all.
The Theyzit’s and Themzit’s never heed to the calls.
The Wezit’s sit patiently as the walls start to fall.

The door, you see, that the Theyzit’s have stolen
sits closer to Wezit’s the more that they’re growing.
For the Wezit’s and Uszit’s must bridge Therezit’s door.
If not, the Whozit’s who knewzit will knowz it no more
‘cos the Theyzit’s will take it and destroy it for sure.

The click-clock tick-tock mocks as the Uszit’s chase time,
the Wezit’s find keys to mold into rhymes.
Amazing things these Wezit’s ‘n’ Uszit’s will find
while crawling and clawing and gnawing their minds.

And the secret, it gets closer
and the shore, it grows nearer
and the route, it is clearer
and the time, it is dearer
and never ever ever fearer
the Super Wezit’s’ n’ Uszit’s are right over herer
to welcome new days!

As for the Theyzit’s and the Themzit’s?

Well they’d bestest fly away.

the mad ones gather ’round…

featured in the poetry forum July 4, 2009  :: 0 comments

to say their words,
to play their songs,
to dance their jig,
to snap their fingers,
to clap their hands,
to hoot their howls,
to boldly go
where mad ones

go!

go!

go!

to the swirling frontiers of
creativity, sensuality, comedy,
insanity, divinity, sexuality
& maybe, just maybe,
even debauchery.

the mad ones gather ’round…

because they feel the seed
of mad expression needs attention
thru the unconventional means
of evolutional revolution.

they speak to their fellow mad ones
who understand the words they recite,
who hear the notes they ignite,
who want a place to share their light,
who want to be a part of this swirling madness
because it feels so right
to be tapped in
and connected to
the collective source
of synchronicity.

this madness is our madness.
this swirl is our swirl.
this moment is our moment.

the whole mad swirl
of everything to come begins

…now!

…now!

…now!

every second,
every minute,
every hour,
every day,
every week,
every month,
every every every there is!

the mad ones gather ’round…

and i’ll be shuffling after as i’ve always done,
after the ones i love the most,
the mad ones.

Blue Notes

featured in the poetry forum May 28, 2009  :: 0 comments

words unspoken
meanings unheard
feelings unfelt

short-termed promises turned to lies
long-termed amnesia’s broken the ties

the buzz of rolling dallas
quiets the night
in abrupt silences
while the weak-day’s erased,
& placed back-burner

plans & promises
sputtered blindly & loosely

wandering…

wondering…

if floated words
still carry weight
when sunrise
licks its’ withered edges

ready-made phrases & places
remembered & forgotten faces
lost conversations
hidden by midnight’s blue hue

this night’s now might mean
everything or nothing
depending upon
tomorrow’s misery

but aren’t we so strong
before weakness sets in
profundities, vulnerabilities
insights, spotlights, dead nights

then insecurities become false comfort,
a blanket with holes
that knows something
that knows nothing
& is always out of reach

can we feel this way again?
what keeps the feelings alive?
is it beyond this moment?
will it die & will we die with it?

resurrection’s holding ends with timelines
it’s this bliss with strings
which will bring nothing to the table
when it’s time to eat

this dying feast
this fading peace

satisfaction is fleeting
in all night meetings
of lost-in-time rhymes
& notes blown blue

time ticks by carelessly
as plans & promises
sit in waiting
baiting tomorrow’s destiny

keep dreaming
it’s a necessity

start over
it’s really ok
this night was
as good, as profound,
as open, as honest,

as what it was
as what it is

start over
really, it’s ok
this blue night
was what it was
& is what it is
& will be
what it will be
as long as we…

keep dreaming
it’s a necessity

Joe

featured in the poetry forum February 22, 2009  :: 0 comments

click here to listen to the spoken word mix by 10k Poets (spoken word track courtesy of PAO Productions)

Some folks say there’s no voice today that is willing to reach the hearts and minds of the average Joe. You know him. He’s the:

The 50+ hours a week with no OT Joe

The let’s build our lives on shaky credit with a 21% APR Joe

The one pay check away from living in the car Joe

The American dream that’s drifting away Joe

The let’s kill the pain with spirits, herbs and chemicals Joe

The fear for our tomorrow’s in a world chock full of sorrow’s Joe

The class I was born into is going extinct and there’s no moving up but only going down Joe

The masses that passes the classes and still works the mailroom Joe

The man on the street with nothing to eat Joe

The barely legal boys with their lethal toys who play GI Joe Joe

The dying too young my song never sung Joe

The teenager dad who wasn’t so bad but got dealt the bad hand Joe

The drug addicted fool who sits outside the schoolyard retracing his steps to find his way back home Joe

The lonely poet who has lost his voice by no choice of his own Joe

The can’t find it behind them and can’t find it in front of them ‘cos tomorrow may not there Joe

The living in fear of the 6 o’clock news afraid to hear another 3,000 are struck dead in the name of God Joe

The seeker who seeks and finds nothing worthwhile Joe

The fool who struck gold only to let it go up in smoke Joe

The I’m too tired to deal with this head, sometimes I think I’d rather be dead Joe

The coping and hoping for someone to hear their plea Joe

I hear you Joe. And this one’s for us Joe.

Too Do

featured in the poetry forum February 9, 2009  :: 0 comments

There’s way too many thoughts
that come swirling in my head

too fast, too high to do

A string of events still not yet met
lead to the next few, expanding imaginings
breathing and walking and talking all on their own
I become consumed by this swirling madness
trying like hell to keep up with the snaking timelines

too many, too fast to do

I am flooded with
previsional visions of
these triple-visioned missions
white-capping rising tides
with no time to decide
which waves to ride and
which ones to hide behind
unsure of which ones are right
the ridden or the hidden or the…
oh god which wave do I choose!

too high, too many to do

I’m begging for some peace of mind
a quite place that I could find
to stop the spinning hands of time
to just say stop and stay behind to:

write a story, paint a picture, compose a poem, sing a song, dance a jig, act a play, weave a web, give a care, pray a prayer, bare my soul, ride a wave, think my thoughts, express my soul, fill the whole, speak the truth, live the dream, reach the we, love the me, believe I’m free to

but no…

There’s way too many thoughts
that come swirling inside my head

too fast, too high to do

On the Brink

featured in the poetry forum December 20, 2008  :: 0 comments

Are you ready? Get ready. Get set.

Change…

is ablaze in your brain
as you feel its flame
spreading across synapses’ bridges
on the brink of creations
wonders and amazements.

Change…

is alive in this room
you can feel its pulse driving;
blood flowing through spirit
on the brink of spontaneous combustion
evolution revolution now.

Are you ready? Get ready. Get set.

Change…

moves in mysterious ways, delirious ways…

in a book, in a song…

in a stroke of a brush…

in a piece of poetry that cracks you open
and puts you back together again…

in a perfectly timed twitch of the index finger
capturing the beauty of the moment…

in the sweeping arch of a dancer’s back…

in the final scene
of a barely seen
screen adaptation
of the book written
by the author you love
as the song you crave
plays with words in verses
that you painted
just the other day…

in a gentle kiss that lands directly on your soul’s cheek…

in a closed-eye embrace from your Daddy’s little girl,
in a soul-knowing look from your other half of the sky…

in this moment right here.

Are you ready? Get ready. Get set.

Change…

can come
on a cold winter’s breath,
chilling you…

filling you…

almost killing you,
leaving you frozen,
broken and alone.

Change…

can come
in drip-by-drop erosions,
in imperceptible ways
when seen from day-to-day
but slowly and surely
weaves its way
into your life
in a canyon
of grand proportions.

Are you ready? Get ready. Get set.

Your change is a’comin’.

Your change is now.

Who ever told you you weren’t enough…

they lied.

Who ever told you you weren’t worthy…

they were wrong.

Who ever told you it wasn’t your destiny to change the world…

they were sadly mistaken.

Are you ready?

You are worthy.

Get ready.

You are enough.

Get set.

This IS your destiny.

Change…

is anew in this world
as we feel its birth emerging
growth pushing through reality
on the brink of a new earth.
we are the ones.

Are you ready?

Get ready.

Are you set?

Get set

Are you ready?

– johnny olson & lisa olson

R.I.P. Doctor

December 19, 2008  :: 0 comments

I read the master
baiting the system
with insane rants and raves.
Mad swirls of words
floating
down
and
out
on paper canvas pages
…blank.

Mad with insanity saying:
“See that there,
that vast white space,
that there is me.”

Scratching our heads
in wonder
wondering
just what the hell was said?

But now he’s dead.

The doctor
couldn’t handle
the white canvas,
sitting still
as the world
turns
on
end

“How ’bout munching on my .45?”

Careful though, Doc,
it’ll put a hole
in the back
of your mad head.

The Doctor is dead.

RIP Hunter S. Thompson (1937-2005)