jonberger

I’m not sure if I’d call what you’re doing
poetry.
It’s all so unstructured, isn’t it?
It’s just words
strewn about on a page
willy nilly, Silly Billy.

It’s not really what you’d call art, though.
I mean, I’m no judge,
but I’d call what you’re doing
something other than poetry,
like “thoughts” or “thinglets”
or “pieces,” maybe.
“Pieces” has a ring,
don’t you think?

Something non-specific,
but still vaguely descriptive.
That could do the trick, perhaps?
Rather than sullying the name
of a form I know little about
but will continue to speak
as if I were an expert on?

How does that suit you?

Camille’s days are full.
She has the kids.
She has her projects
and all the good works she’s been involved in
and a good name she’s invested years in
and she just doesn’t have time
for that nonsense in Phoenix.

Camille is occupied.
When she has time, maybe
she’ll stop by
pay a visit
see how things are going.
If she has an opportunity
in her week
perhaps she can be driven down
on a sunny day
with the top down
and the wind blowing free
and she can look around
at the birds and the trees
and the sun in the beautiful new world
and Camille can decide
what she’ll do with her day
and the next
and the next.

If she ever does get a chance
what with her days so busy
and her time full.
Camille
will just have to figure it out
in the next three to ten years.

and what if it all works out?

Just take that in
for a second,
that slight possibility
that every chance you failed to take
every opportunity lost
every door unopened
or broken promise…

What if all the mistakes
and even roads not taken
what if they led you down the primrose path?
What if all your bad works
took you to heaven?

What would that mean?
What would that do?
What do I deserve
if it works out for me
after all that I have done
to absolutely not earn it?

What then?

What you don’t know could fill a house
a world
a universe
and does
– except for this tiny little thimble
that you’ve got
in your tiny little room
that you keep protected
from everyone around you
except when you open your window
to give people
a piece of your mind.

I’m not sure if you quite understand.
This is not how the story goes.
The narrative
up there on the screen,
what you’re seeing,
it doesn’t follow that path.
It doesn’t go down the road
you are watching it go.
The story before you
DOES NOT HAPPEN
do you get it?
We are watching
a fictitious story!

Yes,
I see the irony in that.

This tale that is not flowing appropriately
is my tale.
I am its director
and I should know
how it flows
how it goes
and, homies and hoes, this ain’t it.
This ain’t right.

The left turn is at Albuquerque.
The last train’s at Clarksville.
The lady demands satisfaction.
I know what happens next.
I wrote the book on this
and I cannot, for the life of me,
see what is going to happen
when I turn the page.

I am frightened
to turn the page.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

I wrote the script, dammit.
This is my movie.

What happens next?

The apartment seems smaller now
as you pace in this uncertain light.
You are not used to this shade of sun.
Usually
you are somewhere else
at this time of day
but the season has ended, apparently,
prematurely
and the apartment
just needs to be paced.

The cat wonders
why you are circling the perimeter
so steadily.
Perhaps you should go out.
You are always out at this hour.
You always have something to do
somewhere to go.
This change of pace is
refreshing
as you find yourself back in the living room
for the eighteenth time
in recent memory.

Dusting could be done perhaps.
Or a bit of record organizing.
Maybe looking up old friends
and inviting them over
but they’ve all got their patterns and activities
that must be so.

Are those children outside?
Have they always been there at this hour?
How had you never known?
This is a strange season now
with very uncertain light.
Perhaps you should go out.
You just wish you knew where there was
still to go.

The last bit of dirt put into place
was patted down.
We said our final words,
and walked away.

The shovel went back into the shed
got locked up
and everyone skulked off to separate lives
whatever they may have been.

It was a gray day
but behind the clouds
there was a sun
somewhere
and some of us
had some sort of work to do.

Trust your gut?
Your gut is a liar.
Your gut knows nothing.
Your gut doesn’t have a brain
in its fucking head.
Your gut, as much as you want to trust it
is suspect and unreliable
and not the trustworthy source you’ve been told.
Whoever said to trust your gut?
Trusted their gut,
you hear what I’m saying?

Your gut, no matter what,
is not as honest and pure
in its decision-making
as you’d think.
Your gut ain’t objective.
Your gut will lead you astray
because your gut’s decisions
are guided by hunger
or whichever way your dick is pointing
(if you have one of those.
I do!)
or where your heart’s been pumping most recently.
Your gut don’t know shit.

Your gut is as stupid as the rest of you.
As stupid as me.
Trust your gut?
I hate your guts!

The single red ballon
is stuck in the tree
blowing this way
that
a little unclear
as to which way to go.
Does it even know?

When it gets free
from its tethered tree
will it fly up to such great heights
reach lands never known
by balloons of its apparent ilk
or will it fall down to the street
bumping ’til ground underfoot?

Will wild winds just blow it
every which way
until she smashes into wall
dying ignominious death
a shriveled little rubber thing?
Where will she go?
Does she know?
What is that single red balloon to do?
Can anyone say?
And if so: who?

It’s just a space
a room
some geometric kind of classist identification that
come the revolution
won’t mean much of anything
to much of anyone anyway, so…

Who cares?

It’s just a room.

It only means what you put into it
so fuck it
keep it minimal.
Don’t mind
don’t matter.
Four walls
a window
a door.
Whatever.
Just a room.

You get out what you put in.
It’s about investment.
A room’s a construct, really,
like a home or a family
or a nation.
You believe in it
only if you want to.
So why bother believing?

Why bother believing?

Why bother believ – I am asking you.
I need an answer.
The room can be anywhere, can’t it?
I can take my room with me, right?
I need an answer
before the Marshals.