Johnny in Lights
the blind spot
the secret of that con
centration grinding
until the scratches
or paint
strokes or pinpricks o
pen a space (it hurts)
won’t be words
won’t be clouds
he can’t contain his
face his
fingers poking
out of his mouth
of his eyes (please
don’t) his vagina
won’t take body
won’t hold soul
flesh-colored fingers
hang down he’d say
seeing is not the
same as (fuck you)
touching
won’t cream
won’t bleed
blazes out of
art out of reach
of red (I can’t fucking
see) neon
flashing Johnny and
Johnny again
First published in Spoon River Poetry Review 42.1 (Summer 2017): 36–37.
