She was no predator.
I let her
do what whiskey did with whinos–
tear holes in our lives
so large you could drive a freaking truck thru
I wrote odes and lymrics to dreams of vengeance,
acidic words meant to give offense,
where stale joy came from artificial sunshine.
The fire I felt
burned and feels sublime.
Now years, I find I’m lonely.
Comforted by none who seem to know me,
realizing I’ve been waxing wicked
about a woman
I shared a kid with.
Now that her world is finally tumbling
with her begging and quietly crumbling,
I wonder at my marshaling malice.
Did my fury
ruin Wonderland for Alice?
I don’t know,
I enjoyed the show though.
I feel sorrow that my prediction–
that she’d taste ash and ruin–
has finally found fruition.
My anger realized autumn.
The fuel that fed it has found its bottom,
and in the silence I hear my echo
smell old smoke
and feel some sorrow.
The predator, I think was me,
and I’ve eaten my last feast.
I’ll probably build her back her Rome,
because, now that the fire is out,
I find myself with too much stone.
— Michael Johnson
Koyotee Laughing 