jonberger

Sometimes, social media reminds meof a friendship from an ancient past
that has been technically rekindled through social media
but never actually followed through on.
We agreed to maintain contact
like through some distant radio signal
that we’ve never turned off
but never really used.
It’s there for emergencies only,
just in case.
I don’t know what situation will arise for us to reach out.
He’s a round-the-world single-dad widower.
When will our lives cross again?

His songs were amazing
and he was a gentle soul.
We spent an overnight in the presence of a beautiful, funny woman.
I watched him help her with her pain.

There’s always the option to reach out to each other;
social media affords us that.
Until one of us is burnt out, we can always just make contact.
There is that to keep in mind.

The next time you’ll dance
will be at a wedding.
It will not be yours.
You will be a plus one,
there as stunt casting,
to give the invited one more breathing room
at further events,
but you may charm the family
with your absurdist ways.
Venture carefully.
Avoid leg cramps.

The suit may already have tears
that you might want to investigate
before the affair
– lest they result in unfortunate
(but comic) circumstances.

You may prove allergic to certain poisons
– which will prove to have life-saving consequences.

In Junior High School, in the hallway, I found Marc alone
and I asked him why he’d been teasing me so much.
"Because I know you can take it," he said.
"Oh."
I didn’t know how to respond to that.
If it was a sign of my strength
that he was giving me shit,
how would it look if I broke?
Better to just grin and bear it.

This is how many young men deal with the ribbing of their peers:
just accept it, and give back when they can.
A more sensitive sort might admit
when he was hurt,
and try to address the issue.
That is not how we usually deal.

I shouldered the burden that Marc thrust upon me.
He had a good game.
I could take it,
but Marc was a dick.

Sometimes, you just need an upgrade.
I’ve been shaving my head more lately
so my dome gleams more frequently.

I don’t mind looking slovenly,
but I notice that this process shaves years
off my appearance.
The receding hairline disappears
when the hair growth is gone.
Also, most of the gray is in the extra hair.

This is all old news, though.
What I really want to talk about is Paste-Pot Pete,
the Marvel comics character
who used to fight the Human Torch.
A C-Grade loser: you could tell by the name.
But he changed his name to the Trapster
and he joined a team called the Frightful Four,
and he suddenly seemed like more of a menace.

He became more of a B-grade loser,
but still: an upgrade!
Simple changes can fix things up.

Consider that, next time,
maybe, when thinking about toothpaste
or something.

Oh. Imagine that.

For just a moment, I thought everything was all right.
It looked like things were working out
and the balance of our lives was evening out somehow.
Now, it seems, that was simply
an error in judgement
and we’re back to previous assessments
of our place in the order of things.

Very good.
Carry on.
Nothing more to see here.
Just a momentary lapse of understanding.
All is well – or rather –
just the opposite.

Sometimes, you write a poem about wishes, dishes and fishes,
and you spend a long time on the rhythm and meter
and then you expend a magical wish
on just erasing all the time you wasted on that poem
just to keep yourself clean.

Only you didn’t clean yourself of the memory
of that wasted time
and you don’t want to waste another wish
on that fucking waste of a poem
– you’ve already invested too much
on that godforsaken thing already.

So to get some value out of the
sunken cost
– if not in time, then in braincells –
you figure you have to at least get a poem out of the thing
so you compose an explanation,
and, well,
there you have it.

If you have any questions,
I’ll be in the back.

This bullshit
makes me sick:
vomiting.

Healthier,
morning rise
perks me up.

Today is
better than
yesterday.

This goes out to the boy:
First born: I don’t know what you’ve done,
but if you return with the car,
the stash, and the you know what,
we can accept everything,
no questions asked.

This offer is on the table for two hours.
Don’t mistake this for forgiveness, boy.
That will never happen.

I expect a response.

Your Father

There is always something new to do.There is always something new about you.
There are always ways to find something new.
You will find this thing to always be true.

You will find you can always find truth
even if you can’t alway get proof.
Sometimes the rhymes aren’t quite smooth
but they usually hide under the same roof.

There is always someone you once knew
who was not entirely true to you
but if you put your foot in a new shoe
you might come up with a new view.

He found that space was the final frontierand now that he had space,
he had front tears,
back tears, and tears on all sides.
He had tears of a clown, all around,
upside down, wearing a frown,
under a mound of dirty laundry…
this quandary, he knew,
was of his own doing.
It was something he’d be chewing on
for a long, long time to come
now that he was out of her space.