jonberger

“You know,” I was told, “it seems that a great deal
of your contact with the world
is theoretical.
Like, rather than actually living through things
you think about things.“

I thought about it.
It seemed valid.
I had to agree.

“You work from home.
You compose in silence.
When you go out,
you settle in a corner
and wait for the world to come to you.
It seems like less than a life,
you know?”

I did know,
now that it was brought up.
I had to agree.

“Even dialog is something you can make up
rather than actually experience.”

It was true.
I was living lies.
Something about this had to be addressed.
Definitely.

The other day
(No, Mrs. Stickler,
it doesn’t matter what day it was)
I was talking about an artistic practice I’d picked up
and then I referred to a better artistic practice
I’ve yet to exploit
that I learned about from my mentor.

“My mentor,” I said
in the middle of this conversation
like I’d asked this person to mentor me
and this person had agreed
and we’d signed the mentorship papers
and spat before shaking and dancing
those somber mentorship steps.

I didn’t do none of that shit with my mentor.
I barely even talk to my mentor.
And no, Mrs. Stickler, it doesn’t matter
who my mentor is
or isn’t.

I just follow the words
of that person
and their practices
carefully.

Is this a good way to live?
I wonder.
If there were but someone to ask…

Mrs. Stickler?

So here’s the thing:
You’ve got to learn to say goodbye.
You linger.
You loiter.
You stay too late.
It’s an illness, I think.
You cannot take a hint.
You stay until the cows come home
and then miss the clear hoofprint.

There are easy lessons to learn
that will clear this up for you.
When the person you’re talking to
looks beyond you
or yawns
or says “it’s getting late”
or asks “don’t you have to go?”
or interjects “are you tired? I’m SO tired!”
or starts gathering your things for you,
these are context clues
that you should certainly attend to.

Pay attention to the world in which you’re in.
In this whole wide planet, try to make yourself thin.
Don’t be afraid to save your social skin.
Take my advice and you will begin to win.

You have got to learn
to say goodbye.

Sun warm after Fall rain,
she asks how to call happiness.

Stretching on the blanket
she spilled across the grass and leaves,
I shrug.
"It simply comes to me
on occasion,"
I say, and despite myself,
I smile.

I think she smiles as well
but I am looking up
into the clouds
where I see
what looks like the future:
a detached bouncy house
that we could jump in
in days to come.

It looks like something I could find
something she might like to see
as a surprise.

This is something I can make happen.
"This is a good day," I decide.

"What did you say?" she asks.

"What?" I reply,
"What did you say?"

This, this has been poorly planned.
I did not anticipate
the quality of the opening acts.
I did not plan on following performers of such
artistic skill and discernment.
You guys are good!

How the fuck am I supposed to follow that?
I’m supposed to have duds before me.
What the hell is this?
How am I going to impress in a situation like this?
Really, this has become an unacceptable situation.

This, as I believe someone once said before,
has been poorly planned.

Every day is a day of waking.
Every day is a day of work.
Every day is a sunrise setting.
Every day is a sunset missed.
Every day is a missing moment.
Every day I write the script.
Every day
I write the script.

Every night is a worthless order.
Every night is a pizza slice.
Every night is wasted quarter.
Every night, another roll of dice.
Every night, I try at playing games
at which I know I’m ill-equipped.
Every night
I write the script.

In the morn, the light burns brightly
frying cells I barely own.
As I turn my thoughts to rising,
aching muscles, heaving bone.
In the morn, I start to ponder,
like the last one, when I wept.
Every morn,
I will write the script.

Every day
I write the script.

Think:
You could be with me right now
in my hellhole home
with the roaches and the heat
and the filth
and clutter
and the noises in the night
from the bumps from above
along with creaky boards
and crashes outside.

You could be here
in this crowded room
full of snores
and kicks
and smells and scratches
and possible night terrors
that are usually caused by your absence
but still might not be assuaged by your presence.

You could come here now.
I could pay your way
if you could loan me the cash.

There was a survey
they asked me to fill out today
and in it
they asked how things were going
and whether I was experiencing suicidal ideation
and I put down No.

And they asked further down
if I was experiencing any kind of nausea
and I put down No for that, too.

At another place
they pondered if
in any time in the last three months
I had more than eight drinks in a night
and I thought about it for a minute
and then put down a resonate No
and continued with Nos
for all the other drug-related queries.

They asked if I was sad. No.
They asked if I was powerless. No.
They asked if I was sick
or frustrated
or incapable of taking care of regular responsibilities.
No, no, and no-ditty-no-no.

They asked if I was happy.
Now, I wouldn’t go that far…

Interesting survey.
I wonder what the results will say.

I noticed for a while
you wore nothing but red
and I thought it was some kind of power move
but I didn’t say anything
because I thought to call attention to it
might seem a little stalkery
but then again
maybe paying a little attention
shows that you’re worth
being paid attention to, I dunno.

I ended up saying nothing,
and you’ve stopped wearing red all the time,
so maybe it was a month-long thing
and by not bringing it up
I broke the streak.
It’s a shame,

’cause you looked really good in red.

I wonder if I should bring anything else up
like the ponytail
or the earrings
or the braying laugh
– that is more distracting than adorable –
but still notably distinct.

I wonder if these items all identify me
as paying too much attention
or just enough.
I dunno, really.
I dunno.

He decided he was a good listener.
The way they talked around him
as he stroked his chin
and said, "Yes, yes…"
and nodded knowingly
put them at ease,
he felt,
and kept them talking.

That was what a good listener did,
certainly,
and he even asked questions
to keep them going
on whatever subject
they had opted to spout about.

Just keep ’em rambling
and they’ll be happy.
That’s what satisfies the people,
he always said – no.
He always listened.
Because he was, he had decided,
a good listener,
no matter how they always complained.