jonberger

“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.

If there had been more matriarchiessome people think there might be less violence in society.
I don’t know if that would be true
but I’d be happy to be proven wrong.

She asked me what I thought about the song
and I said I liked it
but that wasn’t entirely honest.

I didn’t exactly understand it
and when I asked a couple questions
I understood why.

“You improvised the lyrics?”
“Yeah, I just sang what I felt,”
she said, “what seemed right in the moment.”

“So you didn’t have a plan?”
“Well, I knew what I was going to do…”
I nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

That made no sense to me at fucking all.
My concrete sensibilities could not parse the lyrics,
or that way to structure a work of art.

Going in without a plan would make something
formless, something indescribable, something
probably, completely senseless. Without sense.

Who could think under those conditions?
“It’ll take me a few more listens to get it, I think.”
I explained, and she nodded, ready to begin her next song.

We were talking about our favorite artist,and how it was a shame that it wasn’t reciprocal.
"I don’t think she likes me," he said.
"Well," he amended,
"I don’t think she appreciates what I do."
"I hear you," I replied,
"I go to her shows whenever I can,
but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her at one of mine.
I profess love for what she does, and she’s always polite,
always friendly to me.
But she’s never said anything one way or another
about what I do."
"Exactly!" he said, "Of course, it’s not about reciprocity.
Nobody has to like what I do. I get it. Still…"
I nodded. I got it, too.
At no point did I say to him or did he say to me
how frequently we had ever gone to each other’s gigs
– which could be calculated in goose eggs –
as we pondered why she didn’t love us enough.

We never got satisfactory answers.

The bottle rests at my side
as the television stares back
silent.
Alone again,
I fiddle with the player
looking for the right playlist.

I need hope
to be added to my life
where there is none to be found.
With a sad smile, I find what I’m looking for
and press the appropriate button.
Christmas songs in January will hopefully do the trick.

They play softly from the player
as I sip straight from the bottle
watching Lamont bicker with Fred.
This is the cure for what ails me, I’m sure.
Christmas tunes in January,
will get me back on track
eventually.

Until then,
more Fireball.

After my second gig
my father gave his review:
“Seemed like you repeated a lot of material.”
I looked over the spreadsheet
and I repeated maybe 33% of the pieces
from my first gig,
like three months before.

Compared to my musical compatriots,
that’s not bad.

Compared to comedians,
that’s astounding.
Still, two outta three wasn’t good enough
for my Dad
so I started working on trying not to repeat material
so I wouldn’t get called up by assholes like my ancestor.

I write when I’m inspired
but I do what I can to bring inspiration to my door
by giving myself time to write most days:
in the morning, in the evening.
Ain’t that fun?

I try to output all the time.
It’s been getting kind of crazy lately,
and I don’t expect to be able to perform all of this
unless I start performing a whole lot more
– not that my pop is around to give me crap anymore.
He wasn’t pay too much attention near the end, anyway.