top of page

C.N.P Poetry 

  • Writer's pictureCathexis Northwest Press

LITTLE GLASS HOUSES; Escape (The Pina Colada Song) by Jack Johnson On Repeat

By: Corie Johnson


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."


bottom of page