virgin, 042701

he is a virgin to the truth

he handpicks fabrications
from an unmarked garden

places them in a basket
set them at my feet

encourages a feeding

but i am not hungry
for this food
so selfishly provided

the truth could not possibly grow here

© 1979 Daria Johnson. All Rights Reserved.


there is no honour in his lies

only masked configurations of the truth

if you can call it that


he speaks in tongues
only decipherable
through translation

but even still

i do not understand
these lies

© 1979 Daria Johnson. All Rights Reserved.


love making

we lay there for hours
contemplating what to do with ourselves
excited fingers skate
over awaiting flesh
and we just…


in wonderment…

© 1979 Daria Johnson. All Rights Reserved.



he sees passed me
into something that is beyond
maybe some purple tree
bearing fruits sweeter than any kiss

how jealous i am
to not be the center
of his attention

or better still
his center

he speaks:
i find it hard
to breathe in this silence

i find it hard
to love you
when it’s painstakingly obvious
that you make it hard
to love you

what greater mistake
could have been made
with silence

© 1979 Daria Johnson. All Rights Reserved.


room temperature

i store the love we’ve made at room temperature
in wax-sealed mason jars
placed on high shelves away from direct sunlight

i am careful to avoid puncturing the seal or dropping the jars
because the expiration date is still pending
and i’ve always been clumsy like that

i take as much care with these jars
as i do with my heart
giving as much attention to the last
as i do to the next
and i wash my hands before and after
so as not the contaminate this magically delicious sweetness
we have made

© 1979 Daria Johnson. All Rights Reserved.

deardaria, goldstar

mother, 01.26.02

mother’s not coming home, he said

but what do you mean
mother’s not coming home?

doesn’t she realize
that i’ve still got a lot of growing up to do
and she’s still got a lot of showing up to do?

but who will now raise the baby?

grandma’s too old
too lazy

it takes a village,
i’ve been told…

but what to do when my village
ain’t even a community
supporting drug warfare
instead of unity
lacking self-esteem
and the american dream
doesn’t come to my neighborhood
after dark

so father isolated me from the village
to make that adolescent pilgrimage
and over you
because you need no anchors to this life

father fattened my belly
with homemades
not store-boughts
and cannots
used to say that
’life is what you make it’

so i decided to make a brand new day
to maybe take the pain of you away

in the same second you realized
love don’t live here no more
you packed your bags
and met the door
on the other side

and i pray the tears i’ve cried
will drown you in your sorrow

no, not today
but maybe tomorrow
when the sun meets and greets me
recharges my inner-most battery
because this shit keeps
and going
and going

without the slightest
inkling of knowing
that last night whilst i slumber
those same monsters
that usually reside under my bed
have now made their way into my head

plaguing even my daylight hours
and my emotional powers
are rapidly depleting

my memory banks are on “e”
cannot be filled for miles
and miles

22 to be exact
but i’m on my way to 23
but you’ll take no part in this splendor that’s me
so don’t look for a shout on the back of my cd

you have caused me to
crash into relationships
where smiling men and women
concealing gleaming objects behind their backs
wait for the opportunity
to lodge it in mine

because of you
i do not trust
like i should
love like i could
and pretend like i would
have been pretending

it does take time to reach
betrayal’s ending
but i am convinced
he will eventually
come for me…

© 1979 Daria Johnson. All Rights Reserved.

deardaria, goldstar

legacy, 05.11.01

my purpose
is to find it

the odds seem so discouraging though
1 billion to 1
1 trillion to 1
1 gazillion to 1

should i fumble
through ½ eaten cereal boxes
dumping out what i cannot use?

so much as been wasted already

maybe i can take the long way home after work?
ask the local youths if they’ve seen my purpose?
paste lost signs to telephone poles?
put out an apb?
maybe then my purpose would try to find me

maybe the opposite

maybe my purpose would
thing me desperate
go into hiding
change his number
his address
better yet
find another damsel
to disperse my future to

giving her a meaning
she isn’t quite ready for

i should have known
to not trust you

© 1979 Daria Johnson. All Rights Reserved.

deardaria, goldstar

prematurely, 12.07.02

inspired by “left luggage”

it was not the night that called him to it

something stronger than my love
found its way into his rememory
and in mere seconds pick pocketed my soul
away from me
ever-so casually hijacked and kidnapped
the most undeserving casualty
which gradually left me standing
at the gates of my own mortality

i try to pretend it ain’t so
try to convince myself that
no one’s too young to go
that no one’s too weak to know any better
and as i sit in this dark room
begging myself to remember
i forget mostly that
we are promised all but nothing

not just one thing but the sum of things
we’ve been elected for
this life promises
nothing but the arbitrarily identified character traits
first instilled when we were born
and even that is subject to change
even those small identities
though some bear a greater name
can be stolen if we are not careful
if we are not fearful
that something larger than ourselves
will send us to our doom

while concurrently
this sad, lost soul
surrounded by four walls
of his emptied room
guarantees only that he will not return this eve

what am i to live for
when the smile of my only begotten son
will no longer greet me
or meet me in toothless chatter?

no daily expenditures of child-like banter
that intend to translate into the heart
of a grander matter
but now perpetuates
and dominates me in silence?

no songs of six pence
or rhymes of wool
this once happy heart
is anything but full
and i have no one to turn to
no previous experience to compare to
a loss of this proportion

i was advised to pray
counseled to pay involuntary homage
to a man whose demise came unexpected like my son’s did

but will my son be granted the same resurrection on the third day?
will my years of faith and unquestionable devotion
promise to deliver the same of which that was taken away from me?

there is much i will never understand
especially how a four year old boy
will never graduate to manhood

could it be that
god so loved the world
he expected my son to die for sins
irrelevant to his existence?
wanted a child
to annihilate the wrong doings of an older man’s repentance?

i refuse to believe that my boy
was one of the chosen few
refuse to accept
the proverbs and verses spewed by men
whose sole tradition was inherited
by many
but still brings suffering to the
one hundred and forty four million
that break bread in his name
that walk in the strait and narrow path
that have ignored temptations only to
be victim to an abomination such as death

“dear father
you have no purpose here
even if you once had
you have one no longer

the ties that bind he and i
are stronger than the ones i’ve had for gods
i’ve never seen

bow down, i will not
i devote every ounce of blood i’ve got
flowing through these veins
to idolize the flesh and blood
of the one
you have so carelessly slain

i am in mourning for him
breathing for him
and every second of every day
my silhouette of self
will be grieving for him

what say you?
what exactly do you plan on doing
to reverse this evil greater than the ones
that man do?

i understand that even
messiahs need people dying in their names
but if all you’ve got is your pride

and i the same
how do you expect to deliver me from anything
other than myself?

dear father
i cast you away from this house
declare war on the holy trinities
and pray divine intervention
will turn its head
and maybe even its back on me

i plan on coming for you
so prepare whatever textbook explanations you have to offer
however unfitting and/or unbelievable it may seem

maybe after branding my own life with suicide
some religion will crown me their queen
and pray to me until the second coming is at hand

please understand
you and i are succinctly the same
and this is the life
that was given to you in his name


© 1979 Daria Johnson. All Rights Reserved.