DCP: Myth of the One sample poems

Do I Scare You?

Do I scare you? Do I look that scary to you?
I was walking around an art event
downtown in Somewhere, AZ,
wearing these chains, and torn jeans.
A parent pulled their child away from me,
violently grabbed them and yanked them away, staring.
DO I LOOK LIKE I EAT SMALL CHILDREN
FOR BREAKFAST?
I’m a nice guy, My leather’s new,
I wear a beret for chris’ sake,
the sign of any Artiste.
I eat cheerios, the box marked up with games
and toys children clamber to buy.
And french toast, made with eggs,
and cinnamon, and vanilla,
sugar for the sweetness,
to take the edge off.
I like it crunchy too.
Do I scare you?
I got words tumbling and bumbling
around my brain
Nonsense til I stand ready to force
them into format on the page
Just because I played with mud and fire,
and spoke poorly of my mother
with all these words,
that makes me scary?
Hey, I've practiced this look,
the image built cautiously,
In the mirror I curled my lip and sneered.
Teeth ain't straight,
tobacco stains and caffeine
leave their trademarked grunge.
But I won't buy into the bristol white
fabricated chemicals.
That makes me scary?
This culitvated image invented
to keep the street rats from begging me,
"Got a cigarette?"
"Got some Gang?"
"Got something to eat?"
One of them scared me,
the first little neo-nazi punk
brave enough to folow me,
screaming curses from
patched together fatigues and jeans,
chains dangling from his hips.
I kept walking, figured
he wouldn't follow me home.
Hoping he wasn't that stupid.
Do I really seem that bad? I'm a bad boy
Attitude pumping out angry
like the fast track at Disney World.
I'm whirling my dervishes
so I don't get left behind.
I caused some bad when
I let logic take a vacation,
does that mean I'm dangerous?
Dangerous was crammed down
my throat on 9-1-1
staring in horror as
the NY skyline took a dive.
I live where dangerous was trained
and invited to get involved.
I'm not that bad.
Do I really, really look that scary?
Not-quite punk spiked hair,
boots that stomp a rhythm,
my jeans are new, and
I've just been reconditioned.
Scary was survival tactics,
roamning dark alleys
same time as vampires,
walking tunnels and bramble bushes,
only scaring fate, not myself.
You're scared of me
because I don't fit an image.
I'm not polite when it
comes to word-tumbling.
Women are still supposed to
BE QUIET SHUT UP AND MAKE BABIES.
I thought we killed Suzie Homemaker
in the 1980's.
Oops, Barbie still wants to marry Ken,
though she's a Corporate Executive.
And I don't fit the picture,
Your ideal of how I should be.
And that scares me.
These chains tempered me,
this jacket is my armour,
the sneer my defense in a world
that finally tipped the scale to insane.
by Johnna M. Gale
copyright 2011

Apex/Crux

I sit at the apex
at the crux
i rotate and spin
like the world
Gravity
invisible shaft
rod down my spine.
I spin and i spin and
i spin and i spin
rotating in a world
gone angry
Here at the center
of my world are
wild panic beatings
the muses inside my head
sing me to sleep at night
"Don't listen to
the anger"
Don't play the
violence,"
Expose the rawness of
who i am on stage
with throbbing ravers
beligerent on acid
or amyl or 'shrooms
"Don't play the violence,"
the muses sing,
"don't go postal"
So I rotate at the apex
slide down the axis
of myself into
the slippery skin
of the earth
I sink in and slide
to the other
side of the world
only to find myself
standing there where
apex, axis, and muse
wait to console
my wild beating heart
Yeah and the violence
is a show, so other
people will know
"You talking to me?"
How hard I am,
and with raw
exposure of words
I pound my anger
like the hammer
of the gun
and I fire
How does one
fight back
without killing?
This is how.
by Johnna M. Gale
copyright 2011