J/metro
jonny metro is a starving artist & sometime poet who lives
somewhere beneath the streets of greeley, colorado. when not
writing his cotton candy notes & songs of the apocalypse
he can be found wandering through the downtown alleys, chain
smoking & searching for his muse. he accepts all love letters
& hate mail at JonnyxMetro@aol.com
My Father Had A Buddha Necklace
My father had a Buddha necklace with a smaller Buddha inside
Two worlds, he told me, but one love
Everything is connected, interweaved
Like an enormous spider web
Pull one silky strand
And all of reality feels it.
He hobnobs with the lates and the greats
Perhaps a dinner party of the dead
Rubbing elbows with Kerouac
Meditating with Ginsberg
Taking speed with Cassady
I mourn for them, the dead
But I envy them as well
They have no worries, no troubles
No clock to beat or deadlines to meet
Only an all-encompassing eye
Will they watch over me as I read over them?
It is this, my friends, I pray
My father had a Buddha necklace with a smaller Buddha inside
Did he ever open it up to make sure?
of course not, he said. Disrespect
So much for enlightenment
So much for the moment
So much for the necklace
Lost on a parkbench circa hippie days
Gathered up by a small child with no friends
Probably a new light to lead the way
Patiently I wait out my turn
Pacing underground, locked in subterranean cell
Reading the last of the last gasp comics
And smoking the butts of obligatory cigarette
Heavy doses of acid rock rotate the room
Head spinning with the words he left behind
Slashes across like full-bodied massage
Chaos controls the blood stream
And the bodies pile up like plague
Bastard Chicken
I saw the proverbial chicken crossing the road today.
I stopped and asked him, "WHY?"
He answered with hen-pecks to my splintered shins.
Bastard chicken!
He dropped his sole possession,
A golden egg, which I promptly scrambled
On the sidewalk
And ate like an over-zealous glutton.
He watched in horror as I digested his future generations.
"Bastard man!" he shouted,
Speaking now, but it was too late.
I was already gathering up the shell,
And walking prim and proper away.
To the top of the beanstalk I climbed,
The gritty, grimy insides of Peter Piper's Pawnshop
Where I traded the remains for a handgun and some drugs.
"Have you heard about the Queen?" Peter asked me.
"Her prized chicken has gone missing."
"Fuck royalty," I said.
"It's the jester's time to shine."
Other Side of the Pipe
Two more emergency pills to cast away the throb
Brought on by strychnine lighting in the poetic quarters of the
future,
So cold despite the hell-fire sunfire behind the clouds outside
And always below the earth.
The age-old agents appear as youthful litigants
Encompassed in an armory of ABC's they wear so proudly.
They are so loud in a quiet place that the soundproofing system
Of clogged ears loses all meaning
And forces this silent jester to encounter the frightening memories
Of those final days near the monster.
These pipes are meant to serve a purpose,
Yet they do nothing but lead to another life.
I listen because I shouldn't have to,
Because I shouldn't need to escape.
I listen because they're also listening to me,
A floating voice backed by floating music,
A soundtrack broken into spiral notes of misery and social status
That is laughed at and mocked by the other side.
The walls are so bare, just kicking and screaming,
Begging for quotes I discovered and recovered while on the road,
But I have none.
I have seen nothing,
Have felt everything,
And will never know enough.
Vixens unite in a disturbing melody rich with color and experience,
Practically inviting me to join them in a journey through junk
that has long been completed.
Who is my mirror?
My breakaway?
Who is the subject of the perfect poem dancing impatiently in
my head,
Waiting to escape,
Although I can not find the words?
If art is extinct, yet I am alive
What hope is there for me?
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