jonberger

When they don’t ask much of you
it’s easy to be used to it
and to simply roll with the flow
and assume that it is the weight of the world
as you look at the balance of things.

And then, when they ask something of you
and it is a bit of inconvenience?
Stop.

Think of what has been done in your name
for your honor
with you solely in mind.
Think about how you have been put first
and how little has been asked for of late
or ever.

Think of this
when they ask something of you
on that rare occasion
and then say “Yes, thank you.
May I have another?”

It may not necessarily apply
but it will be a nice gesture
nevertheless.

There’s a compliment I’ve been meaning to give
and I feel it’ll seem insincere,
since I haven’t offered it before
or with the framework in which it’s offered,
it’ll seem like throwaway words
the kind that everybody uses
and maybe it’s okay
that my commentary gets lost in the shuffle.
Who am I to think that my thoughts need hold sway?
Except I’m me
and I think that my thoughts need hold sway.
That’s just the kind of jerk I are.

So I want to offer a compliment
because I believe it
and I want to give it with frequency
because I tend to believe it with frequency
and I’m annoyed that I haven’t shared
the wonder and amaze I feel
when you do that thing you do
eighty eight percent of the time
(Sometimes, you’re pretty normal,
though).

And I don’t want to say it like that
because that’s a crappy way to bring it up.
I want to tell you
when I’m in the process of being amazed
and wondermented.

So that is my promise.
This is my vow.
From this day forward
I will strive to inform you
when I find myself
in your thrall.
I have been quiet too long
when really
you do something to me
and you ought to know it.

Sarah’s not so sure what to do about Grandma
whether she should invite her to the wedding or not.
Grandma thinks if Sarah prays enough
the gay will go away,
but the wedding’s
probably gonna put the lie to that
once and for all.

Sarah wonders if Grandma would want an invite.
Sarah wonders if Grandma would go.
Sarah wonders if Grandma knows who Sarah really is
or even wants to.

Sarah knows that Grandma had been fighting so long
against people like her
like Sarah
to stop them from even being
that it must be hard to face her.
Sarah certainly knows what that’s like.

She’s heard Grandma say
that people should just live and let live
and thinks that’s really good advice
and wishes Grandma knew to take it
forty five years ago
back during the wars.

Now
Sarah’s not so sure what to do about Grandma
but thinks about living and let live
and thinks that’s about all right.

And the singerman sings of peace and love
in a song about the holocaust
one of those clear examples
of good and evil
where love had no place
and vengeance ought to have some say.

The singerman is begging
for some surcease of violence
when some purifying fire
is what is truly needed
to burn away the cries of the victims.

I do not truck with cries of joy and freedom
when justice is necessary.
The singerman needs to learn.
The singerman needs to learn.
The singerman needs to sing
a different kind of song.

After I fell
in the bathtub
when trying to take a shower
I blacked out.

I didn’t realize I blacked out though.
I guess I just thought I was napping.

I didn’t put it together
the second time either
but I knew I was shaky
getting out of the tub
and over to the toilet
and then tumbling to the living room floor
to lay out for a while
to get myself together.

When later I tried to get up
my knees buckled
and I didn’t make it
and down to the ground
again I went.

This time
my mother tried to stop me
and we crashed skulls.

I crawled my way back to the bathroom
and thought that perhaps
something was wrong.

The head bump sealed the deal.
We cabbed to the hospital
to intake
to discover
when they tried to take my urine
and five minutes in the bathroom
eking out almost nothing
that I was ever so slightly dehydrated.

The head bump meant nothing.
So did the dehydration.
They pumped me with liquids
and sent me on my way
and I learned
not to walk six sunny miles
on eight ounces of water.

The rain has stopped.
The woman lays in her basement bedroom
lacking windows
and wonders if the day lacks sunshine.
She wants to know if
today promises to be
a better tomorrow than yesterday was.
She prays so

and I think I wrote this poem
little less than a month ago
but perhaps – perhaps! – there is a chance
that I am writing a better version today.

I hope I can compose a variant
that captures something more true
more fun
more harmonic
more goodly than before
and maybe no one would have noticed the similarity
before I lampshaded the matter
so good for me, right?

But back to the woman
in her pajamas downstairs.

You know, in retrospect,
her story was pretty well wrapped up already
but these asides are not doing her any favors
so maybe I’ll be back here in a month.

The Chinese wasn’t very good
but it was cheap
and it was plentiful
and it kept us going when we needed it
boxes and bowls of it
circling the room as we roamed,
sat, and swigged colas,
struggling to squeeze it all in.

This wasn’t the first time
and it wouldn’t be the last
we were running up against a deadline
to put this mother out
and lots of us were pitching in on layout
which was something of a creative disaster every time.

The pages didn’t have to be clear
or communicative
so much as they had to be distinct.
That was the mandate
and that we could all produce
even the less visually inclined of us
even as the evening stretched on.

The food disappeared
and the pages got finished,
four after four after four,
until finally, at four we were done,
and Lara could take the master away
for replication.
Mission accomplished.

These were my first days
my earlier adventures in publishing
my learning how to make a zine.

I think in the final analysis
this is just as well:
you in your corner
me in mine.

We’d not have worked out
even had the stars aligned
and all the pieces fallen into place.
I’d have found some way to muck it up
to spew it all up into space.

I’m sure your calm and kind
would have been overcome
by my chaotic self-criticism;
my voluminous villainy would outclass
all your honor
and finer traits

and am I still pedestalling you?
I guess so.
Even after all this time
it’s simply what I do.
I think of you as on high
and me beneath.

This too
Is why it couldn’t be.

So it’s better
with the distance.
It’s better
certainly.

At the old folk club
where I spent all of my time
the waitress came over
bent to my ear and said,
“The lady wants to buy you a drink.”

I looked around
but couldn’t find the lady.
The waitress pointed.
The lady nodded.
I recognized her. That was no lady;
that was my friend.

“What would you like?”
The waitress asked.
“I don’t much want a drink,”
I said, “can I get some eggs instead?”
She looked at me funny.
“Eggs.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’ll check.”
She went to my friend.

The waitress came back, shaking her head.
“She said ‘Give the man his eggs!’”
“I like eggs,” I grinned.

It’s not like I don’t drink
but I eat a lot more than I drink
and the eggs
came with toast!
They were the price of a soft drink, too.
I was a cheap date for my friend.

When I got my eggs
I said thanks to the waitress
and tipped a forkful to my friend
across the room.
She nodded in return.

The eggs were good.

I don’t need to go through Stanford Prison
or live through Third Nazi years
to know if I could live through
the rough treatment of authority figures:
I can’t.
When the going gets tough,
I say “how high?”

I have worked for the Military Industrial Complex.
I have been paid by folks who have stolen from the Little Guy.
I have been the bully when it is convenient.
I lived through the Trump Years and didn’t do a thing.

I am not the one who stood up.
I am not the one who fought.
I am not the one who spoke truth to power.
I am the one who gave up easily
willingly
wailfully.
It’s so easy to do.
I could do it all day.

If you are looking for a champion
someone to beat the odds
look further then,
look much further,
for that creature is further afield than here
and is much, much harder to find.