November 4-10, 2013: Lee Balan and Michael Lee Johnson

Lee Balan and Michael Lee Johnson

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Lee Balan
LBALAN@dc.rr.com

Bio (auto)

Lee Balan lives in Palm Springs, CA where he is known for behavior commonly associated with deranged artists and poets. He was the first editor and art director for Beyond Baroque Magazine in Venice, CA. He has had poems and stories featured in several magazines including Phantom Seed, Sun-Runner, Storylandia, and Big Bridge.org. He was a facilitator for the Tenderloin Writer’s Workshop in San Francisco. His background in mental health has been a major influence on his work. His blog of short stories, “Red City,” can be seen at http://leebalanarts.wordpress.com/

The following work is Copyright © 2013, and owned by Lee Balan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

We Do It All For You

Luminous chickens cluck at me
I’m frantic
And tear at my hair
Red-and-blue chickens are staring
Whoa boy
Gigantic chickens are dancing
On the pin of my head
My fingers are melting
Horny-toad chickens attack my body
I’m out of control
My fingers are running away from me
I’m plucked naked
Big chickens stuff me with grease
My fingers have forsaken me
oh no
Colonel Chicken’s got an extra crispy
Secret recipe


Michael Lee Johnson
promomanusa@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in twenty-five countries, he edits seven poetry sites. Michael has released The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book), several chapbooks Of his poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has over 66 poetry videos on YouTube. Visit him on the web here: http://poetryman.mysite.com/

The following work is Copyright © 2013, and owned by Michael Lee Johnson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Painted Cat

The painted cat
on my balcony
hangs in the sun,
bleaches out
it’s wooden
survival kit,
cut short-
then rots
chips
paint,
cracks
widen in joints,
no infant sparrow wings
nestled in the hole
beneath its neck-
then falls down.
No longer a swinger
in latter days, August wind.