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Angelheaded Hipsters
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz" - Allen Ginsberg (excerpt from "HOWL")
I see the maddest minds of my generation consumed by sadness. Hopes gone. Dreams destroyed by endless dished-out disappointments. Beaten down by daily grinds. Chewed up and spit out. Pathetic pulp. Finding no solace in empty bottles of booze. Finding no peace in the ashes of burned out bowls. Finding no holy in the crossroads of the thighs. Finding empty in their never ending fight to find something in xerox'd chapbooks & grainy films & endless blogs & x-rated midnight scream dreams & face fucks in seedy bar bathrooms & seeking answers to questions no one's ever heard muttered in the first place & in the spaces between the lines that dash the back roads that they ride. I see.
It starts in the eyes. The look that goes right thru you. They are dwelling somewhere else. In lonely rooms in shanty houses and flopped on couches scratchin' at some itchin' they never can reach. Abused by the muses, these mad ones escape in bottles of booze chased by pills or filled with weed, their crazed eyes greened by Mary's fumes. I've seen the madness take root. I understand their howls. I've seen their slack jaws hang wide with words and worms crawling and falling and eating out their insides. Too much all at once. The walls fall, not enough. Hungry and wanting. More life, more highs, more lows, more tears, more fears, more fucking mores! Sharp minds, dulled senses. Lost ones. Bloodshot eyes, twisted mouths, gone ones. Dancing feet, shuffling streets, mad ones. Never enough, there's no such word, beat ones.
I have no feelings one way or the other. I hold no judgement. For you see, I am an accomplice and I too am being consumed by this collective madness.
I am with you...
...on endless quests to find rock bottom
...whetting the dreams that wake you screaming whispers of regret
...in the pools of blue eyed bimbo'd bitches pitching fits and saying your poetry ain't shit from some duct taped bar stool
...flippin' the bird to thankless zombies who have no clue who you are, were or will be
...baring your wares for those who kinda care and kinda don't and won't admit it even if they didn't because it ain't hip not to get it
...on this ride into the endless nights
Unholy is the...
...never ending cigarette
...dirty faced ashtrays
...tombstones of believed bottled dreams
...terror faced stares in broken mirrors
...throwaway seeds and stems
...rejections due to style
...dejected dreams that didn't fit the status quo
...short lines of open stages
...long lines of closed stages
...wishes for the discovery
...promises of someday soons
...pity me and my self-constructed self-destructing woes
...envy for those with no egos
...dreams and screams of drug induced screens
...the bird song bringing in the dawn
...you I be
...me you be
...end
- Johnny Olson
click here to see the video of this poem being performed LIVE at Mad Swirl's Open Mic
(featured in the poetry forum 03.17.12)
editor's note: "...end," he says; "...nope," we thinks. This inspired by birthday Jack from Monday back, tickling his Ginsberg muse, wound-up swirl of words carries on as long as eyes read and voices speak - this methinks. - mh
Welcome Back
It's been awhile. It took a spell to feel well but now I'm back on track. Ol' Humpty Dumpty me fell off the wall carelessly and my broken pieces scattered thin and it took all the King's horses and forces to put me back together again. But, I am back...
I'm finding my heart again. Seems all I needed was a kick in the seat and just a little traction for my wayward feet. Now... I'm planted firmly (sorta) and my head's back on straight (kinda) and my mind ain't dwelling and cloudy and shouting at my sleeve bleeding heart which is finally starting to feel and thumping excitedly at all the possibilities awaiting me. The ticker was sick but not no more. What's opened up with all this reconstruction from its mass destruction is a bigger door! From my heart's shore to its other shore, from tip-top ceilings to down low floors! Now there's room for so much more. I am back my friends and ready to feel.
I'm finding my eyes again. I'm no longer staring at yesterday's whats, whys, whos and whens. I grew so tired seeing only yesterday's classes with half-filled glasses. Now I'm looking out and seeing what is presently. My eyes have longed to see the here and now... soaking in this urban scene, quietly chaotic and loudly serene seeing hot assed summer breezes waving dreamily to the pock-holed pavement, Tejano music bloating and fading, floating and falling, accordion chords ricocheting off these technicolor walls on this X+ street seeing all kinds of beat and diggin' on how beautiful it feels to see again. I am back my friends and ready to see.
I'm finding my ears again. All I kept hearing was chatter and lies, soul shaking sighs, breaking good-byes. But they opened up and I'm ready to sit and listen, to really hear, to perk up and give you my undivided attention and to fully absorb all these pictures you've been saying and praying and hoping just to be heard. Speak to my years, sing to my tears, shout to my fears, whisper in my ears, I hear you. I truly do. I am back my friends and ready to hear.
I'm finding my voice again. It was cracked and weak, ignored and meek. But it's no longer keeping quiet. I got some words that have been waiting to speak, patiently sitting and bidding their time to bounce out in shouts out of my mouth and pair up and make them some rhymes! I've saved up a few stories or two too, believe you me. And my shout is back on, along with my whisper, too. They've just been waiting for the right time to play and say... "The time is now!" because I am back my friends and ready to speak.
I'm finding that the finding finds me finding more doors. Discovering something everyday as I'm scratchin' at my surface. There's still a whole lot more of me left to explore in this quest of rediscovering all of me. But you know what I really feel? I feel back, my friends, and really feeling real.
- Johnny Olson
(featured in the poetry forum 08.27.11)
Precipitation
I've seen the rains of changes
come crashing down in torrential waves
But it had been awhile for me
it had been awhile
since I've felt the rains of change
wash down these cheeks
it had to have been a few decades or more
not since I was no more then four.
I thought I grew immune to the tears,
(big boys don't cry, big boys don't cry)
I couldn't imagine I'd ever hear
the tune of this grown up man
crying
mourning
& breaking down
But one day, one day the clouds in me
threatened to finally break free
As the blowing winds stroked my parched cheeks,
and the skies began to crumble
the lightning ripping thru to those
broken dreams,
stolen things,
used to be's,
woe's are me's
and once the rains came they didn't stop
they started with a drip and a drop
drip drop
drip drop drip drop
And I cried for all the things I failed to shed tears for - drip
I cried 34 years worth - drop
I cried all those held back tears - drip
I cried for childhood fears - drop
I cried for the the ones that used to care - drip
I cried for the long lost years - drop
I cried for world despairs - drip
I cried for the dearly departed - drop
I cried for the gone good-hearted - drip
I cried for the disappearing dreams - drop
I cried just for me - drip
I cried just for me - drop
And I cried
I cried for all I was
drip drop
And I cried
I cried for all I am
drip drop
And I cried
I cried for all I will be
drip drop
And I cried
drip drop drip drop drip drop drip drop drip drop
drip drop drip drop drip drop drip drop
til finally the rain ripped a hole in my sky
and all I could do to stay sane
was keep on crying
and oh how I tried
to stop the storm
but it kept on coming for more
and I kept on crying
drip drop
the tears rolled down my cheeks
in streams, in rivers, in crashing waves
pounding on my shores
drip drop
and my once parched cheeks
welcomed these rains of change
and as each one fell it relieved the pain
that I kept so deep inside me
until finally
I let go
I released my hold
I opened my soul
to the raining skies inside
drip drop
I let go
I allowed the clouds to open up
I welcomed the storm
I let the rain drops flow
and fall from my eyes
and my once dried up, thirsty baby blues
took on a different hue
as they swam in these streams
from these rains
washing down my cheeks
drip drop
each one falling from me - drip
calling to me - drop
reminding me - drip
that this storm is - drop
healing me - drip
releasing me - drop
cleansing me - drip
opening me - drop
baptizing me - drip
freeing me - drop
and the drips and the drops
of this internal storm
began to stop
drip
and the sky opened
drop
and the sun shined down
upon me
once again
- Johnny Olson
(featured in the poetry forum 11.06.10)
Remembering
Twenty years erased and faced with buried memories of some other me from some other time and from some other place. Something was said which set-off thoughts in my head and I was whisked off to desert lands of oil and sand while in my cozy corner. Finding myself halfway across the world remembering...
Devil Dogs & M16s.
Camaraderie & war machines.
Fragile farewells & goodbye to our families.
Live-fire dry-runs & everyday MREs.
Letters from home & sand storming breezes.
Spades was the game & hating the enemy.
Watching our backs & getting home strategies.
GI Joe games & barely nineteen we be's.
Not old enough to drink but could kill with ease.
Smuggled porn mags & uptight Saudi's.
Sista sent candy and found hidden doobies.
Shield became Storm and we hunted Iraqi's
"Gas! Gas! Gas!" & "Where the hell are we?"'s.
Young old salts & old young newbies.
Just trying to get by & survive the atrocities.
Surrendering armies and our easiest victory.
Homecoming parades & tied yellow ribboned trees.
Semper Fi's and remembering "when we"'s...
Twenty years later and I find I can still be brought back to that some other me from some other time and from some other place, silently remembering these memories I know I will never forget.
- johnny olson
(featured in the poetry forum 05.31.10)
Who the Hell Am I?!
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.
- johnny olson
(featured in the poetry forum 04.16.10)
Bright & Easy
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.
- johnny olson
(featured in the poetry forum 12.11.09)
Mad
Circus
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.
- johnny olson
(featured in the poetry forum 11.06.09)
The Whozit Who Knewszit
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.
- johnny olson
(featured in the poetry forum 09.04.09)
the mad ones gather 'round...
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.
- johnny olson
(featured in the poetry forum 07.04.09)
Blue Notes
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
- johnny olson
(featured in the poetry forum 05.28.09)
Joe
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.
- johnny olson
(featured in the poetry forum 02.22.09)
Too Do
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
- johnny olson
(featured in the poetry forum 02.09.09)
Inheritance
"The scientist has marched in and taken the place of the poet. But one day somebody will find the solution to the problems of the world and remember, it will be a poet, not a scientist." Frank Lloyd Wright
the thumping heart beat
(th thump)
seems to get louder
(TH thump)
with each passing moment
(TH THUMP)
we bottle it up
pass it around
the momentum catches
the glorious wave of change
comes crashing down
and we are on the brink
of boiling over
spilling and filling
seeing and being
flowing and glowing
the fire is spreading
in this twirling world...now
our voices, our choices
bringing the forces of change...now
the whole mad swirl of
everything to come begins...now
we're a part of this everything
setting yesterday on fire
and taking the reigns
of the moment
we watch it
we whirl and twirl it
in our collective creative hands
because
the poets shall inherit the Earth!
yes, it's true.
the mad ones whose slacked jaws
hang loosely, words flowing easily
speaking raw truths
the poets who speak freely
of what hangs heavily
around their hearts
the poets shall expose the bankrupt world
the poets hide for no one
is afraid of no one
never owned by no one
the poets shall be the voice-box of truth!
no one knows
what will be exposed
from the blue-eyed soul of the poets
the poets shall not quiet down!
the sad and passionate ones
the dry and high ones
the mad and manic ones
the poets shall ride the tides!
it's just a matter of time
when the reasoning in the rhyme
will rise to the forefront and finally
fin-al-ly
knock down societies fragile walls
and free the holy divinity
from the broken, old hands
of mediocrity
the poets shall inherit the Earth!
and the world will fare better for it.
- johnny olson
(featured in the poetry forum 07.11.08)
I Am Doing What I Can
I am doing what I can to be a real man.
a true man
a kind man
a feeling man
a dreaming man
a baring-of-my-soul man
a whole man
a rock & rolling man
a don’t-have-to-know-everything man
a questioning man
a seeking & finding man
a peeking-thru-my-fingers man
a speaking-thru-my-actions man
a walk-the-talk man
a strong-yet-bending man
a man-with-a-plan man
a go-with-the-flow man
a show & telling man
a shuffling after man
a leading man
a behind-the-scenes man
a humble man
a rough & tumble man
a man’s man
a good man
a great man
a best man
a mate man
a sensitive man
a dad-of-a-daughter man
a true blue-eyed soul man
a man-of-many-colors man
a diverse man
a poet & painter man
a Renaissance man
a speaking-from-the-heart man
a pre-dawn praying man
a meditating man
a tolerant man
a 9-to-5 man
a trusted & trusting man
a thankful & grateful man
a living-in-the-moment man
a man-of-many-multitudes man
I am doing what I can to be a real man.
- johnny olson
Ready or Not
Change is a’coming.
Sometimes she comes in
crushing white-capped tidal waves.
Or sometimes she comes on
a gentle ripple left
from a fallen autumn leaf.
But she’s always a’coming.
She’s a’coming right now
as I write these fragile words
on this forgotten paper
in this fading notebook
sitting in this shabby cubbyhole
in my modest lil’ home
of my charmed life.
Change is always
breathing
down
your
neck.
She can be a live wire, sometimes.
A lot to handle, sometimes.
By folks like us, sometimes.
But don’t let her fool you,
her sometimes sultry looks
and whispered promises
sometimes seem so promising.
Sometimes,
she’s much more
subtly disguised
as a street corner beggar
begging you for some change
and your eyes meet
and you see
her looking back at you
in the bloodshot eyes of this
vagabonded version of you.
Change is a’coming.
Change is ablaze in your brain
as you feel its flame spreading
across synopsizes bridges
on the brink of creations
wonder and amazement.
Change is a’coming.
In a book...in a song...in a stroke of a brush...in a set of rhyming and complimenting words...in a perfectly timed twitch of the index finger capturing the beauty of the moment...in a movement in the 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...
Change is a’coming.
In a gentle kiss that lands directly on your soul’s cheek...in a close-eyed embrace from your Daddy’s little girl...in a soul knowing look from your other half of the sky...in this moment right here writing about the moments that change rode in on with vivacious tenacity and took her some new, and much needed ground and momentum...
Change is a’coming.
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.
Change can come
in a cold winter’s breath,
killing you with chills that fill
each hidden and unknown crevice
leaving you frozen, broken
and alone.
Change can come
on the bitter bee’s stinger,
quickly bringing pain and fear
and a held back tear
leaving you unclear
on what you’ve done to deserve this.
Change can come
on a butterfly’s wing,
when the rocks and the trees
begin to sing
and winter seeds planted deep
begin to creep out of their skin
and take root,
flowering and blooming in Spring.
Change is a’coming.
Ready or not.
- johnny olson
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