Five poems by Quinn Carver Johnson and Todd Fuller



Perhaps those footsteps outside the door are clouds come

to pawn sunny days for Midwest thunderstorms—

On the electronics shelf, I leave one of the TVs on,


tuned into the local news. On the screen,

a brand-new weatherman, standing too stiff

and talking too fast, explains air currents


while the dark tint of storm curtains the shop windows

dimming the light inside. I let my eyes to adjust before

I stare back down at the crossword. Seven Across:

a sudden but violent rainstorm. The clouds burst

and the sun filters its way back into the room. A patron

with an umbrella, broken on two of the spokes,

steps through the doors and shakes herself dry like a dog.

She glances to the television coverage and then says,

Fucker of a shit storm, ain’t it? I look up from my paper

and ask, what’s a ten-letter word for ‘written in the stars?’


Soda Can Sam Offers Life Advice Over a Cigarette


Because traces of laughter might be echoing 

against windy tree tops & ricocheting into 

unassuming hearts of the town’s passersby—


After locking the store, slamming the metal bars

over the screen door shut, I meet my buddy Sam

at a cowboy-themed dive bar down on 5th street.


In the summers, frat boys & their too-young girlfriends

dance on the rooftop to bad country music, but tonight

it’s just me & Sam, so we drain some beer & talk

about the work of being alive. I ask when


he plans on stopping by the shop, again, & he shrugs.

I tell him about the flies in the light fixture, how I used

to climb up on top of the counter when the shop was empty

& slide the plastic cover off, but now I just let them fry.


I know it’s morbid,

but it’s what I’ve been thinking about,

so I ask about his day instead.

He tells me that he sees his wife’s 

ghost in the reflection of every window

he passes throughout the day,

like she’s still walking

beside him on the sidewalk.


He says On the walk here, I saw her standing

in the window of a dress shop & the dress

she tried on was just atrocious—almost like she knew.


It reminded me of our wedding day, so I just smiled.


Pulling a long drag from his smoke &

letting out a laugh closer to a cough,

he says      Our lives are bows / pulled back

                  & aimed at the world     (another drag)


                  so we’re responsible

                  for picking the arrows.


—because of this, I laugh.

Frank’s Wild Years

- after Tom Waits, of course


Chicanery, tomfoolery, hoopla, angst, amuck, and other shades

of youth hang neatly over a nail in the back hall, collecting dust,

pocked with holes from a few stray months. Once, you ran,

pedaled, drove, screamed across pavement however you could,

burnt all kinds of rubber down to particles and walked away,

scratched your name into any surface you could find just to prove

to a stranger that you might be somebody even if everyone else forgot. 

You pulled cigarettes down to the nubs and let the poison settle

deep in your gut like it might kill off just the unwanted parts of you

and leave something better in their wake. You marched and fought

and took wrenches to the bolts of the machine, breaking the world

piece by piece into something better, something to be proud of.                 And now what?


You railed against the bullshit of your west Texas life

and all you’ve done since is change your zip code. 


Where Dirt Lands / Where Lands Dirt: Dorthy’s Lament/ 


                               a stop in  Oklahoma 

                                      after a car accident

                                               takes another

                                                     dad away


                      —to Randi (and Papa Larry)


Her body had forgotten (those) 

simple functions—and handfuls 

of dirt thrown down to an open



She could do that—stand above 

death with her sad faces & see 

tears evaporate before touching



She had no words for her loss. 

Her loss remains unnamed. Her

loss is like this: how do you try 

to breathe / in spaces / void of

air / or light? 


How do you step from heart to 

heartless in one last breath? How 

do you rise up through blood-

drenched ancestral soil? 


Through soil drenched in each

ancestor’s blood—

Through a drenched heart bled



Nothing to eat but memories. &

always hungering for memories

to be gone.







Because I could forget how to ride 

a bike through the city park at dusk—

I know how to change, to shift, to fit

myself neatly into small containers 

of various shapes

and sizes.


We could abandon Addison, all of its 

dull, faceless inhabitants, and head out 

to claim a new identity—to pillage &

plunder & plant our independence

flag deep in 

the Flint Hills &

the Arbuckle summits. 


Because I’ll join you on the road, sing 

ash-can ballads to the pt-pt-pt of your 

typewriter hammering out a letter 

to your parents, you’ve gone off to 

find America or

Woody Guthrie or

whatever it is.


Whatever you’re looking for, take me 

with you—I’ll help you look. Because my 

jar fits nicely in your suitcase next to 

your neon clothes 

& thrift-store dreams.


“All five poems were co-written by Quinn Carver Johnson and Dr. Todd Fuller and come from a collaborative manuscript, tentatively titled "Linear".

The manuscript was born from the final poem of Fuller's first poetry collection, To the Disappearance, titled 'An Index of First Lines:' and attempts to provide a poem for each of the disjointed 'first lines' from Fuller's original poem.”

Quinn Carver Johnson was born and raised on the Kansas-Oklahoma border and currently attends Hendrix College, pursuing degrees in Creative Writing and Performance Studies. Johnson was an editorial intern at Sundress Publications and currently serves as the Editor-in-Chief for the Aonian. Johnson’s work has appeared in Rappahannock Review, Right Hand Pointing, and Flint Hills Review.

Todd Fuller has two books published, 60 Feet Six Inches and Other Distances from Home: the (Baseball) Life of Mose YellowHorse (Holy Cow! Press, 2002) and To the Disappearance (Mongrel Empire Press, 2015). He serves as co-director of OU’s Mark Allen Everett Poetry Series and as an adjunct faculty mentor for the Red Earth MFA Program at Oklahoma City University. Recent work has appeared in the Journal of Working Class Studies, Flint Hills Review, and Red Earth Review.