jonberger

I’ve told the story of going to an early show
and getting stuck in the corner
wedged in by the seats
listening to your songs
and crying
because I was bored
literally to tears.

In ensuing years,
you’ve gotten better,
I’ll readily admit.
The specter of celebrity covers a great area
and makes your accomplishments
substantial as they are
more impressive still.

When I hear you now
I can confess to weeping
for different reasons.
But there is still that early history
before your crowning achievements
when you were still barely formed
and I can speak of songs of yours
that were not as much
as they would eventually become.

I no longer feel bound by what you do
not in the same ways, at least.

You put the kitten in the box
which you feed then to the serpents
who in turn are fed to griffins
which you skin down for their pelts
which then you trade for ogre’s ochre
that you lose in warlock’s poker
where you win the Queen’s good choker
that holds the key to her one belt.

It’s the very sort of scary mess
that you will constantly process
as you seek to win caresses
of the royal hand.
Your adventures wild may be,
but while you’re out there recklessly
striving for the love of she,
endangered is her land.

So careful as you damage kitties
that you don’t imperil cities
lest Her Highness’ committees
come to take you to the tower.

For though you lust with all your span,
and she swears that she won’t unman you,
if you’re not wary, you’ll be banned.
It’s well within her power.

Love her special, love her quick.

Wax her, heat her with your wick
until it’s melted to the stick.
Aye, there’s the nub!

But if it ends, as most games do
be aware, you played it through
and you lost fair, your debt is due.

It’s time to leave the club.

Midtown. Mid-eighties. Our crew passes the other kids
before the show.
We discover cute girl
is celebrating birthday
before Billy Joel goes on.

Thus begins impromptu
a capella interactive reading
of Beatles’ “Birthday,”
despite it being nobody else’s
“My birthday, too, yeah!”
Despite hypocrisy,
it goes over well.

Differing war parties disperse
going on independent snack runs
before Billy gets banging.
Excitement runs high.

“Easy Money” has been in a movie
but nobody cared for it.
Every other song on the album
had been a hit.
“He’s got to do ‘Uptown Girl’.”
“Tell me about it.”
“‘Tell Her About It.'”
“Ah, ‘Leave a Tender Moment Alone’.”
Pizza was a block away.
We went to pick up some slices.

Well-fed and less-funded,
we headed back to the Garden for the gig.
We were having the time of our lives
in the dangerous night-time Manhattan
in the Summer of our youths.

We can never get too much of a good thing.
Life can only get better from here.

It occurs to me
that the girl in high school
who had a couple of sleepovers at my house
may have had a thing for me.

It further occurs to me
that I may not have been
in the emotional space at the time
to be able to deal with such a thing.

By the time I was ready
she had moved on to my friend.
This is the way of the world.
Mine,
at least.

We walk in the park
my father and I.

It is later days
and he is not doing well.

Other people know my father is dying
but they do not mention this to me.

Perhaps I sense this, though,
for I try to have conversations with my father
about his life, asking about his past
in ways I have not asked before.

I am seeking to collect stories.

He is responsive
but, of course, his memories are not as strong
as they could be.
He is old
but there is another factor.

“The electro-shocks definitely blocked out some things,”
he says.
“That was when?”
“I was probably fifteen, sixteen.”
I calculate the years from this: the end of Truman.
“And why were you getting shocks?”
“I was in therapy,” he explains, “I asked to be.”
“And this is what they did to you?” I cringe. “How barbaric!”
“I asked. Well,” he amends, “I agreed.
They said it was the best bet to cure me, and I did feel better after the shock therapy.”
“So it worked?”
“I guess so,” my dad shrugs.

I learn from my father in his later years
while he is dying
– though I only learn the last part
later still.

It was a bad idea from the start.
Madge, a two-time widow,
had only recently moved to her retirement home
and we were visiting.

We went out for a drive,
and Madge wanted to stop by her old house.
We couldn’t come up with a good reason not to
and though dementia was taking her faculties
she was able to direct us pretty easily.
We found work trucks outside.

When Madge got out
she was agitated.
“Who are you?” She cried.
“What are you doing here?”

It took a few minutes
for her daughter-in-law to appear.
Apparently, she and the son were moving in.
Either Madge had forgotten
or hadn’t been informed.

She wasn’t screaming
by the time we left
but she wasn’t comfortable either.

As we drove back
to the facility
her hand was shaking.
I brought my hand over
to cover hers,
to calm it.

When we arrived back
at her place
Madge thanked me
and we got her back to her room
where she could hopefully rest more comfortably.

She did
for a time.

Not as many things last through generations
as they used to.
I just passed a Mexican place
I ate at back when I was new to Mexican
when I was new to the neighborhood
when I was new to the scene
when I didn’t know so many people
and I took what kindnesses I could.

We’d been to a show at Luna Lounge
and got to talking outside of the place
then drifted to the corner
for like an hour
when she said,
“You wanna get something to eat?”
I did want to get something to eat.

San Loco was around the corner
so we stopped in
and sat with chips, salsa, burritos and drinks.
They didn’t kick us out for a long time.

She died some years later
in childbirth.
I didn’t think that happened anymore.

I never met the kids.

Our relationship is short
a subway station at best
and her back is to me
so communication between us is not the best
or extant
but I notice details during our short time together.
Only her thumbnail is painted.
Why is that?

Her down jacket is on her arm
while her maroon sweater
is the strangest color.
I have seen it so rarely.
It is quite fetching.

Her hair is long
and though I can gauge her shape,
I don’t know what she looks like.
Our relationship
will end without that knowledge.

And the the doors open
and I’ll be off
and perhaps we’ll meet again.
We’ll see someday.

When you write a folk song
but your folks don’t care.
When you write a polish joke
but it’s not polished enough.
When you write about justice
but it just isn’t right
so righteousness has been left behind.
When you suspect that you’ve been remote lately
so you haven’t been feeling your feelings.
When you want to finish this before it outstays its welcome but there isn’t time.

One job I had, I was working with a temp
and I was showing him the ropes.
I was providing instructions and scripting
for tech support emails
to him.

"While you’re getting used to it," I said,
"Hold off on sending mail out without me reviewing them first."

A couple hours later I was looking over some responses
to emails that had gone out.
Turns out he had skipped my review process
and one correspondence (at least) miscommunicated some info.
"Maybe he misunderstood," I thought,
but then I thought about what I relayed to him
and there was really no way for my instructions to have been lost.

I had to bring it up with our boss
who made the decision that he wasn’t living up to expectations
and didn’t need to come back
so the temp agency sent someone new.

I did that.
I held the power of life and death for this temp in that office.

Years later, I myself was fired from there
so the circle of life went round and round.
Good for me.