Poetry: Selections from Adam Johnson

Larson's day

Larson's constructed and stacked

feigns pleasures and confiscations

shakes head, weeps

it's morning

at Coney Island he tries to

kill his self with embalming fluid

makes a most indubitable foofooraw

of a woman's petticoat

as he was after a chaser of sorts

the fluid don't do the trick

goes home, smokes in his Caddy

a cherry red hearse, pledges plenty

of things

sees an old classmate from the gold rush

attempts egress, can't make it

screams at the windshield

smokes

locked in his own car

afternooninig receding to chiming

and the winds and the like

Larson grabs a dice lock, up pulls

redeploys to his habitat

locks door, slumps, turns on a

tv to play catch with

says which? – an advert for not scamping

there's an old fruit salad

he eats it with his counter soap

and something stronger

Larson likes his schnapps

attached garage, 1997

"recognize" by warren g plays form a stereo inside

we are in the garage

the smoke from kool brand menthols fills the air

it is a mix of cigarettes and gasoline spills

half the boys in this garage want congress with each other

but would kill themselves before they admit it

all of their uncles have already taken them hunting

and taught them to hate queers

there are two sets of boxing gloves

the boys are passing them around

little one round matches where we fight

i am in a corner, i am a pussy

out of nowhere i am sucker punched by a bare fist

some guy i barely know

he came from the side

his little blitzkrieg

he's shorter than me, but scary

he yells faggot in my face

it is articulated as "figgity, figgity, faggot!"

an old 90s routine...

i'm in shock

my face hurts

i slink, vibrate

watering mince pies, i am in flight mode

i find a door to the outside

i run

i am running from him

i am still running from him

i was 14

i ate lunch in the library for a year

i wasn't afraid of him hurting me

i just couldn't stand the humiliation of it all

i couldn't show my face

i learned how to survive alone in my little cubby

i learned how to track the human species

i catalogued hair, scents, the sounds of a contained society

i peer-reviewed

at home i downloaded music from kazaa and

watched howard stern on E in my room

i am now 38, i am a plastic surgeon, and a bachelor

i am afraid of running into him at

a gas station, a shop, picking out a card for his wife maybe

because i still think of killing him

i think of a blade entering

in any event, ultra quiet

i keep one in my car

it is a range rover

but i don't want to go to prison

not yet anyway

 

there is no death to one's childhood

and i refuse to give it up

it's just some kind of horrific continuum, all the way

there are only years

and heartache

Larson's jury trial

Larson whims

goes full drag near Wall Street

fights a bottle within him

he is done up extraordinary

clumped furs

a choker, pumps glazed and dazzling

some face paint...

has his pocket book

and brass knuckles

he sets up a soapbox and

starts to cook gas with strangers

giggles, shrieks,

stomps out a dog

before many a ganderer

suredly he is naughty

and found out, stripped of his coat

to the ground he hurls

cuffed, hauled

many who seen him dog kill have

him on phones

they are all evidentiary

say they, "the look in his eyes"

(witness statements inscribed)

Larson is hauled off to the city jail

there, the coppers pose

Larson dummies up, wants a sodapop

 

aggravated cruelty to animals

the statute is codified long past

and read in open court

the jury is sworn, seated, bored

Larson says he only have been dog stealing

not killing nor its attempt

botched grab, testifies, crocodile tears

his lawyer proffers tissue, pause

cases rests, 12 people retire for 5 minutes

they return, the verdict is read

Larson serves 14 days

and is ordered into programming

for his brain

Adam Johnson lives in Minneapolis. His first collection of poetry, What Are You Doing Out Here Alone, Away From Everyone? was published by HASH Press in December, 2021.