jonberger

It’s easier to assume that every word you ever wrote
has ever been
always ever
written about me.

If I just make that a blanket belief
it takes the issue of ego
out of of every relentless debate
wondering if I’m thinking too much of myself
or too little
wondering what you’ve been up to
or how else there might be to interpret
the words you’ve been presenting
to the effortless void
in our mutual absence.

It’s simply best
to presume that you are writing about me
whomsoever you may be.
If I am the subject
it makes your art
objectively more compelling.

Oh Marni, of the big boobs
and the spiky hair
from my favorite cafe
in the village,
if we were to collect
all the poems I failed to write about you
thanks to my own self-censor
and pile them into a charnel house
for determinate disposal,
that would be a good thing.

Even the poems I did write about you
lust filled screeds
of a post-adolescent, tit-obsessed talking zit
are not worth mentioning
despite the fact I just did.

Marni, you deserved better attentions than mine,
and I’m pretty sure you got them
and I hope the non-existent poems
they failed to write about you
are being tossed off right now
to some imaginary charnel house
even as we speak.

I wrote a poem yesterday
and today thought
“How nice. Perhaps I shall do it again!”
Once, there was a day
when that was not a rare thing to say.
I’d not have bothered to utter the words
so obvious were they
but now
it seemed almost breathtaking an accomplishment.

I knew what I was going to write about:
the brevity of our institutions in America
which in the hands of an artist
isn’t as lame a subject as it sounds.
Mine are not the hands of an artist
anymore.

What I wrote was didactic and divisive
to say nothing of dumb.
It wasn’t a poem.
It was a waste of time.

I had failed to write poems on consecutive days
just as I used to do
so frequently.
I am sorry to have raised expectations.

Somewhere in Philadelphiathere are scratched your initials
on a street corner
(though it’s really in the middle
of the sidewalk
where I etched them).

It was years and years ago
when we were young
and I was full of vigor
and vinegar
and vibrantly wanted to provide testimony
of my devotion to you.

I could have sent you flowers
or offered you chocolates
or perhaps simply spoken kindly to you
but streetside vandalism was my preferred form
of flattery
at the time.

I cannot tell you where it is.
I was only visiting the city
and had to move fast
before any watchful eye saw me disturb the sidewalk
with your name.

Your initials might not even be there anymore.
It was a while ago
and the street might have since been paved again.
I wish I could check for sure
just as I wish I could know
that you are well
out there
somewhere in the world.

I wrote this one special.I wrote this for you.
I wrote this one in particular
for this particular day
in this particular way
so we could particularly while away hours
working our way through the particulars
of this… particular piece.

I did it for you.
I did it for us.
I write this one special
for today
for this occasion
as a gift
and like the best of gifts
it works best
if it’s shared.

She rests on my chestand I pull her closer still.
I feel her nerves.
I hear her heart
it pulses against me
as I breathe.

I hope that the closeness calms
quiets
kills and stills the crazy energy
barely bridled within her
while slowly, silently
something comes up
from within me.

A fart.

It startles
it shocks
it rises and raises intensity
in this bed
but she doesn’t move
and strangely
while the fart rises
her heart rate falls.

Something about it
has done the trick
where nothing I could think of
did aught about it.

We lay there relieved
as the smell dissipates
and some calm
curiously remains.

You said yes and the days are like diamonds.
You said yes and I am concussed.
You said yes and I’m wicked mixed nature:
I’m pleased as pie, but my confusion’s robust.

You said yes which I thought wouldn’t happen.
You said yes and I’ve gotten my way.
You said yes and my happiness beckons
my legs are electric, they’re ready to play.

You said yes and you can’t take it back.
You said yes; now I have what I lacked.
You said yes and I’m feeling so free
because you’ve said yes to me.

You said yes and the trees are romantic.
You said yes and the bushes sing songs.
You said yes and the grass whispers poems.
The ants echo stanzas and patter along.

You said yes and the rains have turned upward.
You said yes and the thunder cracks "hi!"
You said yes and the lightning lights ways
for the people to wander and no one asks why

but it’s cuz you said yes and my dreams are come true
You said yes. To me. From YOU!
You said yes. I couldn’t believe it.
Are you sure you didn’t April Foolish deceive it?

You said yes. It’s a gas gas gas.
You said yes. I pray it won’t pass.
You said yes. You never can flee.
You said yes to me.

At some point it will be easy to write again.
The ideas will flow
the words will dribble out of the pen
the sentences simply stream from my fingers
as I tippity type them onto the page.

Someday
the process will prove to be natural
as it once was.

The writing will again be something spontaneous
not torturous
tested
twisted out of shape.

Eventually
it won’t be as hard as this,
I hope.

There are parts of the world that don’t look real
so ethereal are their beauty
so extraordinary their shades.
Some things are too glorious to be true.
I have seen photographs that feel like they must be doctored
but for my faith in the photographer
and another thing.

I seen other beauty that is too much to believe
another creature that defies reality
to such an extent
that it makes all other things possible.

You can make me imagine all things true
because I’d never thought I’d ever see something
such as you.

No you’re right,
obviously, I’m not over you,
otherwise, I wouldn’t have been in touch
to let you know
that I was over you,
that should have been obvious
on my way over here.

I would not have asked you to return
all the clothes I’d ever lent you
and I would not have brought a mariachi band
to your parents’ place
to inform them I wouldn’t be coming for Thanksgiving
anymore.

These are not the gestures of a man
who has seen things through to completion.
These might not be the gestures of a man
who knows what completion truly is.

But these are the words of a man
who is man enough to admit that he is not over you.
So though you’re right, and I should give you some distance
don’t you think that my personal revelation
deserves maybe some kind of a hug for good behavior?

Or maybe I should work on boundaries.