By: Corie Johnson
LITTLE GLASS HOUSES
Get me a
poison ring. Size 9 ¼. Art
Deco. Art
Deco is any item I see
and like. Minimalist is
any item I see and dislike. Green
is Art Deco. Looking half forward
to the upscaled, temporarily
bruised illusioned face followed by looking
fully downward at five hundred
and fifty dollars.
Look, two women are undressing
inside of a clear resin cube paper
weight. People are made
of glass. Hair is made from metal
(copper/wire). Glass
is wrapped in copper foil
and soldered together. Flowers
are real and covered
in resin. Shells are
genuine. Diamonds,
unfortunately, are fake.
First one will share their
skills, aid you into yourself. Accompany
you until you
fit you. Like a glove.
Second one will teach you
methods, several and unique,
to profit off of this.
Escape (The Pina Colada Song) by Jack Johnson On Repeat
Any progress made on the fifth floor of the Wyckoff
Heights Medical Center can be undone within
fifteen to thirty seconds. You can
get into the passenger seat of
a familiar white car parked in the middle of
a one way street for a lousy, wordless
exchange and the hour you’d spent in the
the open circle of talking chairs disappears. Heavy
emphasis on the word lousy if you count
the twenty minutes you’d spent walking to
the hospital, listening to the same Jack Johnson
song, the forty to fifty seconds spent crowded with
the strangers you’re about to sob in front of in an elevator to
the fifth floor, the precious time spent strolling
back after politely declining to get
shitty coffee with everyone afterward, and especially
if you count the money you didn’t even
have to begin with that’s rapidly
dissipated, the word lousy transforms into
pathetic. Five years worth of your only
passion can be undone overnight. You still can’t
unwrap that topic. It’s packaged so carefully
in this thin firetruck red (undoubtedly gorgeous ) wrapping
paper. The kind you feel the need to keep in
tact and save. You have no scissors and
your clumsy, sweaty hands would surely tear it. That
insane, shooting pain that runs from your knees to your heels
on both legs that decided to
show up a week prior to you deciding to show up
on the opposite side of the country, the
severe, constant aching that you didn’t bring
up often because you’re sure that the
right change will come from a third floor walk
up apartment room. The one with the one
toothed cat and furnace mouse. The pain that is
surely worth it. This can be undone within
two to three days after a risky
plane ride you couldn’t afford. It all feels
as though it never
even happened. You effortlessly
realize your favorite color is green.
Corie Johnson is a comedian, writer, artist and enneagram type 4 "living" in Los Angeles.
"Escape (The Pina Colada Song) by Jack Johnson on Repeat:
This poem was written about the few months I lived in Brooklyn (November 2019-April 2020 right before and into the beginning of the pandemic). I had moved there on a whim. My excuse was "I want to try stand up comedy somewhere new." I wanted to run away from my problems. I moved there with no money and my roommates were strangers from Twitter. I hadn't even seen a picture of the room before I got there. The poem focuses on the unrealistic expectations I had about moving across the country, the drug binge I went on when I got there that almost killed me, being stuck in the epicenter of the pandemic alone when it started, feelings that this move caused that I still can't tackle and moving back to LA, healing and finding my real self."