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This writing was accepted for publication
in the 96 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book...
Treading Water
Down in the Dirt (v127) (the Jan./Feb. 2015 Issue)




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Treading Water

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Adrift
(issues edition)
the Down in the Dirt
Jan. - June 2015
collection book
Adrift (issues edition) Down in the Dirt collectoin book get the 318 page
Jan. - June 2015
Down in the Dirt magazine
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Adrift
(issues / chapbooks
edition) - the Down in the Dirt
Jan. - June 2015
collection book
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Jan. - June 2015
Down in the Dirt magazine
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Sunlight
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Sanctuary

(the 2015 poetry, flash fiction,
prose & artwork anthology)
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Linda Cancer (V3)

Michael Lee Johnson


Doctor report $223,694.23
in debt, confirm I am ill.
This chemotherapy kills not this cancer, but me.
I walk around during
my day knowing I am dying of cancer.
I place smiles on my face as a testimony of courage.
Hopscotch, the games begin.
Tumors traveling from a hangman’s noose
around my aorta, it squeezes it dances in laughter,
it skips out, hops, shoves the savagery of itself
like a small canon ball up my cranium.
It spreads like morphine; overdose of Coumadin.
This cleavage of cancer is sleazy.
I own a mask of many colors
hallucinate on my face.
I transform my children.
I preempt being a divorced marriage closer.
Extra time is the slut of my life, yes, redemption.
This ill-fit wig comes alive on my baldhead.
I stare psychopathically into the daylight, the night.
I have passed through tar pitched negativity.
I have bleached my friends, my Jesus, church choir,
my children drenched in reality.
I know the devil seeks sleep not life.
I rebel show love, character to all.
I watched myself watch my daughter marry lover early October 2009.
I refuse to beg or curse God; I still sing in a local church choir.
I do not know what is more potent, revengeful.
I hand delete many sentences in my life.
Death only is perfect and so quiet.
I play duty who is conductor of this symphony.
Death only is tags, strings attached like cello,
malformations, verbal stutter hawk of philosophy.
Jesus cramps in devil for vacations.
Life is a wrester of issues, engaged, with others.
My breath is short, explosions of happiness.
My words and my life are short.
I remember my true friends at our condominium.
I am a female soldier of positive thought.
I bank deposits on all my friends.
Last, my days I switch over Halloween
to summer carnivals, circus acts.
Those suppers you offered I remember.
Now in heaven I spend my time in transitions.
I find myself in fragments at times like most poets.
These dark skies are turning florescent yellow dawn.
Tell Michael, on our condominium board; he needs to learn to write,
check his spelling and grammar; keep working hard at this poem.
Being here I roller skate to music from the sixties:
Sweet Caroline/You Lost That Loving Feeling/It’s The Same Old Song.
I now toss candy kisses on surfaces of clouds beneath me,
squeeze these last stripes of licorice candy make it all melt.
That chemotherapy killed not my cancer, but me.
I freeze fragments of it, poison in a jar,
turn loose chemo to flames of sun.
Send me postcard from earth, run away.

Last doctor reports $453,495.32.
Debt confirms I was ill.



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