jonberger

The Napoleon Complex is based on lies, sure
but that doesn’t stop it from being true, you know.
There’s something fundamental
about a person lacking something
trying to make up for it
in some obvious desperate ways:
the Maserati dick
the crazy expensive amateur guitar
the hairpiece
the platform shoe.

It’s primal and obvious,
these forms of compensation,
even if the first example we think of
is not from reality as we know it.
So what if Napoleon was actually of above average height?
Maybe he was compensating for something else
like astonishing good looks
or a hand that felt better between pieces of cloth.
Maybe he just liked killing. Whatever.

The important thing is
the Complex is true, even if its origin is false.
It doesn’t need proof to be right.
is all I’m saying.

Cow milk’s not good for me. I can take it
but I prefer not to
so I go for almond milk.

I haven’t looked at the carbon footprint too carefully
but if I did,
I’d probably be better with cow’s milk
considering all the gas I produce with it.

I love ice cream.
I love it explosively.
I try to avoid it.
I’m not great at avoiding things I love.

My best form of self-control
is never starting.
So why did I bring this up?
Now I need a pint of some peanut butter cup
and by pint I mean quart.
And by quart I mean
I gotta go.

On my mother’s floor
there are four apartments.
The other three have college age children,
back for the holidays,
and me,
back from the wars.

The war on unemployment.
The war of too many Twinkies.
The war on getting out of bed.

All the apartments have parents
and children.
Parents who are proud
of their progeny
and sometimes
something else.

This represents New York, I think,
America
and the world.
Gods help us all.

For the purposes of this exercise,her name was Danielle,
but this is almost certainly filled with lies.

In Second Grade, while playing in the park
I slapped her.
I didn’t mean to. I didn’t notice her there.
It was barely a hit.
I was spinning like a top
approaching dizzying speeds
unaware of direction, identity, sense or control.
I smacked her
and she sought revenge.

She struck me back
and war was declared
for the weeks that followed
because I couldn’t understand her animosity.
A sorry wouldn’t do
for the damage I did was deeper than I could discern.

It all fizzled eventually
as all Second Grade affairs do.
I don’t even remember her name now.
It could have been Danielle
but it, like everything else,
is probably a lie.

I could have had a happy family.Wife, kids, two point five dogs,
the whole shmegegi.
It was all mine for the taking,
I know it.

There was this girl
in high school
blistering hot
who sometimes talked to me.
We got together one Saturday
over winter break
and she invited me to her place.

I could have gone.
I should have gone.
This world would be so different
had I gone.
Two point five dogs, man…

Fighting your brothers is dangerous- sisters too
cousins, family, whatever! –
because they know where you live.
They know where you eat, sleep, shit
– and they know how to mix those all up
if they want to.

Be careful about fucking with those
that are especially close to you.
They know how best to hurt you.
They know how to hurt you the worst.

If your god is small
has no believers at all
and wants to be around a long long time
then all they’ve got to do is speak this rhyme:

“Believe in me.
Believe in me!
When you believe in nothing else, you can
believe in me!”

If your miniscule maker’s got you lower than low,
making you suspect they’re a nobody schmo,
it’s really just a turn-around phrase.
Make them get you right back into a confident phase.

They can say:
“Believe in me.
Believe in me.
Y’don’t need faith in yourself.
Just believe in me.
Bee bop boo doo doo. Believe…
etc.”

If I had a dollar
for every little problem
I complained about
I’d probably
keep coming up with problems
so I could collect more dollars.

Pretty good scheme there, right?

The secret to making oatmeal potable
is bananas.
A whole lot of bananas.
Bananas through the whole thing.
Bananas bananas bananas.

Now I’m hungry.

I like long skirts with big slits in them
(not so much to wear
– though I’m being quicker to judge
than I should be, with my lack of experience).
They excite my imagination,
especially when topped off
with heeled boots.

Who am I to speak of fashion
with my personal dress code?
No one. I dress poorly.
My opinion holds no weight.
I can’t imagine why any should listen to me.
I do know what I like, though,
and what I like is a long skirt
written about in a short poem.