The leather jacket is too cool.
It’s too hot.
It’s too sharp
too black
too imposing
too much.
I couldn’t pull off such a motorcycle coat
in my younger prettier days
let alone now
in this hideous condition.
The poseur who appears in such garb
would be exactly as I appear tonight
in this dark
hot
sharp and imposing
much too black night
that I cannot pull off
no matter how much
I need to tonight.
They said
It’s all right if you’re not a creator.
You can be many other things
instead.
You can be a wall
or a bucket
or a danish
or a motor vehicle.
You could be a fishing rod
or a fish tooth
or a fisheye lens.
You could be Len’s younger cousin,
who isn’t an artist,
either.
Have you met Len?
Oh, you’re not missing much.
And you’re not missing much
if you’re not a creative sort
they said.
It’s only one sort of sort to be,
they said.
You could be any other kind in the world
they said
– just use your imagination.
Which is a very fine thing for them to propose,
of course,
except that
without art
without creativity
without imagination
how was I to decide
what to do?
There’s a point when you realize
that the things you’re creating
are not so much because you feel you have to create them
but because you feel you have to create.
You feel responsible to art,
I mean,
and you simply are obliged
to repeat the actions you once perpetrated
with joy and abandon
but now perform in practiced perpetuity.
It’s not the worst thing.
Before you did it because you could.
You’d do it for free.
Now you do it because they ask.
You do it because they pay.
It’s what the world does to all of us
eventually
if you get good enough
at the things you love
or so I hear.
Not everyone has that luxury.
You look at me like that
as you have for some time now
but I doubt
if anything’s going to change
as you may wish.
You are who you are
and I are who I are
and these are the way things are
for now
and that’s just how it stands.
I’m just telling it like it is:
I’m sorry
that you don’t like my sad girl songs anymore
but I’m not quite done singing them.
My certain brand of misery
can only be expressed in the twee
and if that’s how it continues to be
from now until infinity,
then, again: so sorry
– but not really.
I’ve gotta sing it
until I’m not sad anymore.
Maybe then I’ll roar.
I.
Open yourself up to new experiences.
New scary experiences.
New uncomfortable experiences
that can get you wet
and frozen
and might leave you on your feet
– to an extent that might cramp up your legs
not that there’ll be anyone to complain to about it
because the customer support department won’t really exist
because your next experience will be
in HELL or the tri-country area
or something like that.
II.
Try something outside the familiar
like mild amounts of poison:
not enough to kill
but enough to cause discomfort and hallucinations
and possibly demolish certain lesser-used intestines
so you can learn new things about your body
and what you truly value.
III.
Value your body more.
Get sold to slavers
who will then keep the profits
because, after all,
they own you, so they own your property (duh!)
Work for a living
and then a dying.
IV.
Start writing fortunes
for a horroscope company
thus freeing me from this curse
any time now… please?
Manhattan, you still shock me
which should come as no surprise
with what Con Ed still charges to put twinkle in the eyes
of a couple million shoppers at a couple thousand stores
– but economics ain’t news in this City anymore.
For just today while climbing up the heights of Fort George Hill
I found one of those areas where urban life’s gone still.
In Highbridge Park I entered with no one else around
and in almost an instant – except for traffic sounds –
I was lost to all the city that has so long been my home
and found a wooded glen in which for hours I could roam.
The reverie could only last so long, in truth, because
the City’s always called me back. She will. She always does.
But for a moment, in Manhattan, I sat on a tree
and thanked you, my town, for this opportunity.
Death shuts us all up.
After death, what’s left to say?
“I’m sorry.”
“My condolences.”
“She’s in a better place now.”
What good do those words do the dead?
What good do those words do the mourning?
What help language?
What use prayer?
How will any benefit from such useless sounds?
Better the death of noise
for now
to complement
the other losses.
Better to share these gaping absences
until some warmth returns
and we are all a little less cold.
It’s not that I give zero fucks
it’s that I get zero fucks
and then treat things in kind.
I’m just preternaturally fuckless,
is what it is.
If it were different,
I’d be offering fucks up and down the boulevard,
free of charge,
a friggin’ Jonny Fuckleseed of Main Street
but that’s not the way it is
and some things’ll never change.
I’m lacking in fucks
so have nothing to provide
regarding the giving or taking of Fuck One
through Fuck Fourteen
going into Fuck Infinity.
You get what I’m saying?
I do not give a single fuck.
Sure, I’ll be there for you,
that’s what friends are for, right?
And you’re a friend of mine
so where you lead, I’ll follow
every step you take,
your shadow, strolling,
traveling along,
fighting ‘til the end.
You can always count on me.
Thank you for being a friend.
Sure, I’ll be there for you,
that’s what friends are for, right?
And you’re a friend of mine
so where you lead, I’ll follow
every step you take,
your shadow, strolling,
traveling along,
fighting ‘til the end.
You can always count on me.
Thank you for being a friend.
jonberger 