jonberger

There are different ways to die, of course,
whether willingly
or on accident.

You could have placed that sweaty soap
on the ground for just that purpose,
a less-hilarious banana-peel
tick-tocking its way to time-bomb effectiveness.

You could take pills
or climb such great heights
or tease the postal service.
Anything’s possible in this time and place.
You could say the wrong word to the wrong woman
on the wrong day and then everything just goes wrong
– or right –
depending on what you’re going for.

There are different ways to die
if you’re looking for it.
It’s so easy
if that’s your aim.

If you knew what I thought of you
how I felt
what you meant
it wouldn’t have mattered
for you would have been too much for me
even if I was ever brave enough
to tell you.

You were too powerful a spirit
too tempestuous a temperament
too torrential a terror
too… too much for me to be able to take in
let alone take out.

You would have seen through me
so easily.
I swear
if you knew what I thought of you
it wouldn’t have made any difference
but still
I wish you did.

It’s easier to assume that every word you ever wrote
has ever been
always ever
written about me.

If I just make that a blanket belief
it takes the issue of ego
out of of every relentless debate
wondering if I’m thinking too much of myself
or too little
wondering what you’ve been up to
or how else there might be to interpret
the words you’ve been presenting
to the effortless void
in our mutual absence.

It’s simply best
to presume that you are writing about me
whomsoever you may be.
If I am the subject
it makes your art
objectively more compelling.

Oh Marni, of the big boobs
and the spiky hair
from my favorite cafe
in the village,
if we were to collect
all the poems I failed to write about you
thanks to my own self-censor
and pile them into a charnel house
for determinate disposal,
that would be a good thing.

Even the poems I did write about you
lust filled screeds
of a post-adolescent, tit-obsessed talking zit
are not worth mentioning
despite the fact I just did.

Marni, you deserved better attentions than mine,
and I’m pretty sure you got them
and I hope the non-existent poems
they failed to write about you
are being tossed off right now
to some imaginary charnel house
even as we speak.

I wrote a poem yesterday
and today thought
“How nice. Perhaps I shall do it again!”
Once, there was a day
when that was not a rare thing to say.
I’d not have bothered to utter the words
so obvious were they
but now
it seemed almost breathtaking an accomplishment.

I knew what I was going to write about:
the brevity of our institutions in America
which in the hands of an artist
isn’t as lame a subject as it sounds.
Mine are not the hands of an artist
anymore.

What I wrote was didactic and divisive
to say nothing of dumb.
It wasn’t a poem.
It was a waste of time.

I had failed to write poems on consecutive days
just as I used to do
so frequently.
I am sorry to have raised expectations.

Somewhere in Philadelphiathere are scratched your initials
on a street corner
(though it’s really in the middle
of the sidewalk
where I etched them).

It was years and years ago
when we were young
and I was full of vigor
and vinegar
and vibrantly wanted to provide testimony
of my devotion to you.

I could have sent you flowers
or offered you chocolates
or perhaps simply spoken kindly to you
but streetside vandalism was my preferred form
of flattery
at the time.

I cannot tell you where it is.
I was only visiting the city
and had to move fast
before any watchful eye saw me disturb the sidewalk
with your name.

Your initials might not even be there anymore.
It was a while ago
and the street might have since been paved again.
I wish I could check for sure
just as I wish I could know
that you are well
out there
somewhere in the world.

I wrote this one special.I wrote this for you.
I wrote this one in particular
for this particular day
in this particular way
so we could particularly while away hours
working our way through the particulars
of this… particular piece.

I did it for you.
I did it for us.
I write this one special
for today
for this occasion
as a gift
and like the best of gifts
it works best
if it’s shared.

She rests on my chest
and I pull her closer still.
I feel her nerves.
I hear her heart,
it pulses against me
as I breathe.

I hope that the closeness calms
quiets
kills and stills the crazy energy
barely bridled within her
while slowly, silently,
something comes up
from within me.

A fart.

It startles
it shocks
it rises and raises intensity
in this bed
but she doesn’t move
and strangely
while the fart rises
her heart rate falls.

Something about it
has done the trick
where nothing I could think of
did aught about it.

We lay there relieved
as the smell dissipates
and some calm
curiously remains.

You said yes and the days are like diamonds.
You said yes and I am concussed.
You said yes and I’m wicked mixed nature:
I’m pleased as pie, but my confusion’s robust.

You said yes which I thought wouldn’t happen.
You said yes and I’ve gotten my way.
You said yes and my happiness beckons
my legs are electric, they’re ready to play.

You said yes and you can’t take it back.
You said yes; now I have what I lacked.
You said yes and I’m feeling so free
because you’ve said yes to me.

You said yes and the trees are romantic.
You said yes and the bushes sing songs.
You said yes and the grass whispers poems.
The ants echo stanzas and patter along.

You said yes and the rains have turned upward.
You said yes and the thunder cracks "hi!"
You said yes and the lightning lights ways
for the people to wander and no one asks why

but it’s cuz you said yes and my dreams are come true
You said yes. To me. From YOU!
You said yes. I couldn’t believe it.
Are you sure you didn’t April Foolish deceive it?

You said yes. It’s a gas gas gas.
You said yes. I pray it won’t pass.
You said yes. You never can flee.
You said yes to me.

At some point it will be easy to write again.
The ideas will flow
the words will dribble out of the pen
the sentences simply stream from my fingers
as I tippity type them onto the page.

Someday
the process will prove to be natural
as it once was.

The writing will again be something spontaneous
not torturous
tested
twisted out of shape.

Eventually
it won’t be as hard as this,
I hope.