jonberger

There wasn’t much to talk about.
We shot the shit for a good ten minutes
but we ran out of the good old days
and the people we had in common
and the few situations we shared back then
and a pall fll over the conversation.

We just didn’t have much to say.
I brought up his family.
He brought up my mom.
I asked about the house
and he wondered how I paid the bills.
The discussion was slight.

He offered food as a topic
and I countered with geography.
The chat did not flow.
We talked about our creative processes
how neither of us had one anymore.
I guess we could have riffed on that
if we were more imaginative.
It didn’t go anywhere.

We really tried.
We each sought a connection
I could tell
but there wasn’t enough there.
Eventually, we parted ways.

It was the worst
and best
of days.

In my brain, the cake was unlimited,
but that was not reality.
It is probably just as well
that the cake was limited,
for how long could I have had my cake
and eaten it, too,
and still maintained the girlish figure
for which I’m known?
Still, I thought I had forever cake
when I did not.
Why is that?

Perhaps it was wish fulfillment,
where I believed the incredible:
that every piece of cake before me
was evidence that there would be more cake
and more
and more and more and more
until I was a shape seen ’round the world:
a man who would be cake.

Possibly, it was all a dream
where I went to the buffet
and, having paid the price of admission,
had access to unlimited ambrosia-items.
Maybe my brain insisted that this was a just result
of market exchange.

I was so sure I could contain multitudes of sweetmeats
but it was truly not so.
The cake had a conclusion.
It had parameters.
I could not dine forever.
I suppose I shall have to live with that.

It’s foolish to think you ever would
but I think of you often
even after all this time.
Every so often,
I try to find you
and always fail
but every day, elsewise,
I have you with me
even if it’s not at all true for you.

You’ve been drinking water.
A lot of water.
Enough water to drown a cow,
you’ve been drinking.

You hope you will see the results you’re looking for:
the hunger abatement
the cleared complexion
the lack of blackouts from dehydration,
but you’re drinking in faith at the moment.
You believe this will help you
immensely.

It better, since you’ve been pissing.
A great deal of piss.
Enough piss to create a urine cow
which no one should ever have to see.
You’ve been dashing to the bathroom so much,
you’re daily clocking your required steps.
It’s immense, really.

It’s all for the good, though.
You’ll reach the desired conclusions.
Your health will improve
your bruises from falls will heal
and your skin will be like milk.
Not that you’re drinking milk.
Just that blessed H2O.
You’ve been drinking water.

There are two kinds of people in this world:
the categorists and the rest.
Of the category-makers, there are two kinds of people:
the insane and the rest.
Of the insane category-keepers, there are two kinds of people: the anal and the rest.
Of the insanely anal organizers, there are two kinds of people: the ones who get things done and the ones that don’t.
Of the mad, effective, persnickety folk who identify things, there are two kinds of people:
the blondes and the redheads.
Of the blonde, crazy, efficiently detail-oriented types that put everything into buckets, there are two kinds of people:
brunettes and men.
Of the male, golden-haired, well-put-together, Type A freaks who insist on categories for everything, there are two kinds of people:
us and them.

Me? I’m not any of ’em.

Tense Anniversary
On the tenth anniversary of your death
I woke up unrefreshed
and got to work late.
I read a little from the latest Billy Collins
but wrote no responses.

I took some calls from random customers
and had a fish and cheese sandwich.
I rode home at five
and found a busted spike on my bike.
There were some comics that needed reading
but my concentration was off
so I missed an important reveal in Spider-Man
that came back to haunt me later.

I went to bed early
to catch up on sleep
but turned and tossed,
so eventually ended up with video games.

I do still miss you,
but if I were to say that not a day goes by
I’d be lying.

My Batman socks do not give me special powers.
It’s stupid to think they would.
Batman is one of the few non-powered people
in all of the Detective Comics Pantheon.
If anything, I’d need Supergirl socks to get something out of it.

But I don’t even gain the will, the wealth, the wondrous purpose that fuels a boy like Batman.
I got some protection for my feet
and maybe a curious sense of fashion.
Nothing else comes to mind.

My Batman socks do not make me a better man
but my Scoobie-Doo socks turn me into quite the hound.

I wanted to write something called Scary Monsters
but I saw that it’s a David Bowie album.
Then I thought about writing Scary Mansions
but it’s a 3D video game
so I considered writing Scary Manson
but that’s pretty tautological to begin with
so scrapped the idea.

I presented myself with Scary Mod,
Scary Mob, Scary Mom and Scary Mop.
None of them spoke to me.
Scary Maddish did
but it didn’t really mean anything.
I went through Scary Macaque
Scary Mandrill
Scary Mandible
and finally Scary Max.
The less said the better.

Eventually, I saw the following words in my head:
Scary Madison Avenue Exec
That’s where I thought I might have lost the plot.

I found the plot with a different title.
I’ll bet you can’t guess it.

Our needs are diametric.
You need me to increase my attention
and I need you to take more responsibility.
Our rubber band stretches wobbly
and who knows what will snap it?

I don’t believe we can sustain this space we’ve saved for ourselves.
Someone’s got to give.
I hope it’s you.

It was unfortunate, that’s for sure…
When we got to Dachau
we saw that the guards had been busy
carefully killing camp prisoners for days.

We were horrified, of course,
but keeps our heads about us
as we rallied the guards
and placed them in the coalyard.

I turned my head, looking for more Germans,
and then heard the eruption from the gun.
They were trying to escape,
I was told,
while I saw their broken and bloodied bodies
rolling on the ground.

They had done awful things
certainly
but deserved better than being shot
at the end of the war.

What an ugly day.