Johnny's Hand Poem by Pasha Satara

there is something fierce
about feeling like the wing
of a butterfly,
not a dangerous fierce,
not a worry about the dust,
just the knowing;
& in the knowing
is johnny's hand, his touch
delicate, his worries
defined, & i hope
he's dreaming this morning...
dreaming & smiling.
because this now
can be enough to make up
for all the lost other days of then.

something fierce
about a man w/convictions
i can respect, fierce
that he loves the countryside,
fierce that he knows
about ambient light;
i wonder if he knows
how it filters through me
& weakens
my constellations,
my rotations,
my mirth.

he sent me a flower,
he sent me a moondance,
he made himself
unavailable to others,
he speaks up for peace
across the waters
& the lands...

& without knowing.

or w/a knowledge his own,
instinctive & intuitive,
he's taken a reading
of my pulse, my heart beat,
my breath, my senses...
w/out trying.

my exiled cali boy,
who's bathed in the pacific;
cali boy,
w/a neck of sinew
that i want to breathe on,
touch w/my lips & tongue,
sing on freely,
singe w/this fire,
comfort like southern,
or something smoother
while moaning 'besame mucho.'

does he know tindersticks,
mazzy la star, tito, exene,
patti smith when she's scary?
he knows, he knows,
even if he knows not yet.

he sent me his treasures,
he sent me his trust,
his shattered wings,
his need to moonbathe,
his ticking brain
on schedule like the last train
& the best
& the only one
i ever want to ride.

he sent me a moondance,
i need nothing now...
nothing;
johnny made it fierce
w/that moondance;
johnny's hand
sent me a moondance.
yes,
yes.