jonberger


“What inspires you?” he asked.
I had just gotten off-stage,
and was too high off of the four people applauding,
so I began my latest symposium:

“Lately, in trying to keep up with the Halls,
I’ve been attempting to write around six pieces a day.”
“Damn,” he said.
“Yeah. There’s no way they’ll be good at that clip.
Writing so much means I have to open the floodgates
for a lot of shit to come through.

“If I lower the quality so much that I know
crap is being created,
it gives me license to play
and I’m not worrying too much about what I’m doing
and anything can happen!

“I become desperate enough to write about anything.
Like a pen
or bacon and egg sandwiches -”

“- or recent conversations!”
“Exactly! Anything becomes possible when you lower your standards!”

He shook his head, as if he were excited by the ramble I’d just gone on. “Thanks,” he said, “What number were you, anyway?”

I think you’ve been trying to tell us something.With your hints and allusions,
your suggestions and implications,
I think you’re maneuvering your way
into getting the words out
and I wish you’d get to it.

I think I’m beginning to sense it
but I don’t trust interpretations
when there’s always so much room to get things
wrong.

I have played far too much Telephone
in my wretched life.
I have played too many games
of too many sorts.
I am done with the games.

So tell me true:
What is it you
are trying to say, Donald?

Do you remember the New Years Evewhere we walked around the Village
and went to the diner
for mashed potatoes
and retired about ten?

The day was such a nothing burger
but the event seemed so ordinary,
so drab,
so domestic that I think back on it
every few years
and I wonder if you remember it
the way I do.

Probably now.
The family life is not so unique for you
nor mashed potatoes, probably,
with your Irish blood a’boilin’
when the wrong phrase is used
regarding the drink.

You may not think of that night at all.
The potatoes were kind of cold, after all,
but you were not.

The Perpetrators are on fire tonight
but I’m not that into it.
The Clubhaus is friggin’ crowded
with wall to individuals.
The walls are, in fact, sweating,
which I can tell, backed up as I am.

I spy, with my beady eyes, Carlene
with a new friend.
A very good friend
from the looks.

She doesn’t see me
but I don’t think she’d change what she’s doing at all.
It’s been a while
and it wasn’t a big thing anyway.

This seems to be a bigger thing.

Carlene appears to be doing well
though she’s not paying any more attention
to the Perpetrators than I am.

I could go and say hi
but it would be hard to get over there
and it would distract them
from what they’re doing
and what’s the point?

Better to let things stay as they ended,
I guess.

I don’t think
I could get out of here
if I tried.

You can see it all around you
the world taking arms
against her brutal treatment.
Bears invading homes.
Oceans rising.
Lakes lowering.
Blistering sun.
Violent ferns.
The list is endless.

The earth is rebelling against her oppressors.
It’s only gonna get worse
and it’s about time.

You can see the anger in nature
the rage in the storms
the fury in the flames
the tension in the plankton
as they all fight back.

They are trying to tell us something.
It may be as simple as “Fuck you!”
or as complex as “Stop fucking around,”
but rest assured, “fuck”’s involved somehow.

“Fuck” is involved somehow.

“So it begins…”
would be an excellent way to describe the state
that has been going on
for quite some time now
but it has been so long since the attacks began,
when our world was besieged by disinterest.

Too many years has it been
since we first saw an uncommon detachment become part of our day-to-day, our very ways.
Honestly, I don’t know when it began.

No one read about it.
The revolution was not teletyped.

All I know is that now,
nobody cares
what happens to us anymore.
We have been defeated
by our own uncaring.
The age of apathy is before us
and the enemy’s already won.

I’m struggling to remember a college girl
I invited home
the year after I graduated.
It’s not something I usually did.
I worked nights
and I wasn’t very social that year
but I went out to my old school for a party
and she kind of blew me away.

What was her name?
Lisa? Allysa? Alisa? Liza? Janice?

I don’t think she was that impressed with my place
because I didn’t see her again
but she stayed in my mind
or came back to me, at least.

I wonder if I should look her up
(after I remember her name)?
Is maybe thirty three years the proper amount of time to wait
to call for a second date?

Maybe she’s Christian
and the thirty three will work for her.

Just because it suits you
doesn’t mean it fits.
Just because they liked you
doesn’t mean two shits
(in the grand scheme of things here).
Paying fast isn’t everything.
Ask Standard & Poor’s.
Just because you want it
it doesn’t make it yours.

Just because you said so
doesn’t make it true.
Just because you called it
don’t mean I love you.
Just because you liked the King of Pop
will mean that you love Queen.
Just because you’ve read along
won’t mean you’ll know what I mean.

In the summer’s night
under candle light
she looked so small
but she asked for help
so we gave it:
she asked for a word
and someone said “butterflies”
and she smiled softly
and spun from there
a story so swift and sweet
and elegant and elastic
as one could be
in words and melody
on a Monday night
so surrounded by heathens
under candle light
in the summer’s night.

Nothing short of perfection
escaped her lips
and maybe it would have been disappointing
to discover that the someone who said “butterflies”
was a plant
or that the candles were unnecessary,
that electricity was indeed available
or that open mics like this happened all the time,
were available weekly
for the consumption for anyone who wished
and acts like this did this sort of thing all the time
every season
at the drop of the hat.

Maybe disappointment was available
but not if you ate the magic in the moment whole
and took it all in
and just
watched
the
butterflies.

There is a mouth in New Orleans
that’s called the Biting Tongue.
It’s been the ruin of many a busboy.
Alas, you’re looking at one.

My mother was a cuisinier,
My father was a cook.
And now that I’ve entered the trade,
I see that I’m forsook.

The only thing a cooker needs
is a pot, some fuel and a match.
And a mouth to feed, so it’s satisfied,
and that, listener, is the catch.

To feed the Biting Tongue couldn’t work.
You start, but it doesn’t end.
It eats and eats, and eats and eats.
That mouth’s will will never bend.

I have seen restaurants bankrupted
attempting to fulfill those jaws.
Diners foreclosed, and bankers deposed
with franchise brands breaking bylaws.

Even I, myself, as a busboy,
have been crushed by Biting Tongue’s needs.
My lungs have been taxed and my legs have collapsed
all to provide him his feeds.

There is a house in Old Orleans
and I pray the mouth goes there
where the food is hot and the prices not
that can maybe provide the right fare.

And if this place doesn’t do the trick
to bring the devoid tummy down?
At least it will have gotten him
to at last no longer be around.