jonberger

In my fantasy relationship with you
we are chaste and perfect
not so unlike the reality of our situation
where we speak sporadically
politely
with friendly overtones
but none of the intensity that exists
in imagination.

In my fantasy relationship with you
– the second we’ve shared this year –
I have seen you as a mentor
my esteemed educator
despite my elderly eminence.
It’s just something about you
or how I see you
from this distance perch.
Surely, I could attempt to peer closer
to get a better view of the you
that’s really true
but it’s really pretty clear that,
outside creative envisionment,
our love would take little root
bear no fruit
land no fish – but many a boot.

In my fantasy relationship with you
we dine together often
in many subjects and succulents
that would not occur in dreary reality.
It’s not the real thing.
It couldn’t pass a three dimensional test,
my two dimensional pretendarie,
but it remains nice to think about
until you are ready
to educate me otherwise.

Don’t you ever get tired of yourself
and your self-involved bullshit
the way the rest of us do?
Really, how often can you go on
about the same three subjects
you, yourself and you
which,
when going from first to second person,
narrows down
to two subjects anyway?
Tiresome.
You are tiresome
and I am tiresome
for going on about you
in this instant.

I swore I wouldn’t do this
(break down and give you this time of day)
but I couldn’t bear
the silent treatment
and just let you ramble on
about whatever suffering
struck you as relevant today.
What was it:
available breakfast cereals
at your local market
and how they ran out of the size
of the brand of the flavor you prefer
and how it may be a conspiracy
against the particular branch
of your specific monotheistic cult?
See, I try not to listen
but the drone sometimes sporadically seeps in.

I shouldn’t have opened up this dialog
but you shouldn’t have been talking
in the first place at all.
We should just go our separate ways,
just two subjects,
divided by as much space
as distant will allow.

I am not as good
at things
as I would like to be.
I am not
as good at things
as you deserve.
I am striving to improve
at doing things:
at being kinder
and doing dishes
and sewing sutures
and paying off zombie loansharks
and also sudoku.

I’m doing what I can
to be a better man
a renaissance person
for you
and also myself.
It wouldn’t hurt me
if the dishes got done more regularly,
I know that, too.

Don’t give up on me.
Be patient,
another thing I’m working on
– along with coercion.

The season, the weather, the company, the atmosphere and food
has all been wonderful today.
I’ve had a time and a holiday
and enjoyed myself immensely
and that gasping hole in the middle
did not stop the joy
– not quite –
but still
I knew you were missing.
I wish you were here.

There may be other years.
There may be other seasons.
Probably
other absences will be the whistling space

that holds back perfection
and you will be closer.
Certainly, I hope so.
I do not wish to miss you
again.

In the future
I would much rather find something else
lacking.

When he told me his truth,
I was quiet,
then said, “I’m just glad
there’s a comedy on tonight.”

I think back on that response
with some sense of shame.
His unburdening
oughtn’t be anything I needed to be lightened out of.
My mood should not be the consideration.
He had a secret to unveil
to an important person to him
and my reaction
was no doubt carefully watched.

Why was I so callous?
I could have been more careful
with my words.
He had waited so long
to tell me
about who he truly was.
I could have held my tongue
a moment or two
to have reacted
with greater poise.

The movie
wasn’t even all that funny.

“Wait, wait, hold up,” my therapist said.
“Could you repeat that?”
I did.
He responded slowly.
“We’ve been together for how many years,
and this hasn’t come up before?”
“Who my parents fuck
isn’t something I consider very much at all.
Who other people fuck
is not in very good taste
to discuss.
When I was robbed in fifth grade
I found it racist to mention
it was by a black kid
which made it much harder
to find him -”

“Do you think,”
my therapist said,
“we could consider your father’s homosexuality
for at least a moment
– if only to humor me?”

We did.

We talked
about his hidden life
and hidden years
and my avoidance of it
and how his time of secrets
may have impacted on his behavior with family
and how I felt treated monstrously
and maybe it wasn’t half so much my fault
as I’d been led to believe
by my own crippled psyche
for the previous two score plus years
and maybe some growth was available
at last?

The session proved fruitful
according to my therapist.

Times are changing,
that’s for sure,
and no one’s sure,
in time’s midst,
if it’s for good or ill
but on that topic
everyone has an opinion or three.

Clearly this is a time for cautious hysteria,
and ridiculous calculations.
We must take pains to threaten
what few standards stay still sacrosanct,
and destroy any idols who remain idle.

It’s an era of error
where mistakes will be made
but maybe strokes of genius, too.
Who can be sure?

Time’ll tell us,
as it so frequently does.
If it could do that on other subjects, as well,
maybe we wouldn’t be quite so anxious today.

Leonard Cohen said something about all this
as he did about so many other things
but I never really listened to Leonard Cohen.

The day after I declared myself witch
the girl of my dreams
invited me to lunch
(it was vegan cuisine,
so there were limits
on my powers).

The Great Bubba Mufungi
once told me
that his people
would do anything
that he asked of them;
his secret
was never to ask too much.

I think the secret
of my nascent sorcery
is the capacity for retroactive madness:
to look into the recent past
and restructure the events,
making order and sense
where little had been.
Others have called this history.
I call this the mystery of my magic.

I shall will the world to my way
through writing things into being
and then claiming I meant them that way.
Next up:
the sky’s the limit
(but just what do I mean
by that…?)!

I keep saying the same thing
with numbing redundancy
because dull as it sounds
this truth remains evident.
There are nobody’s eyes
I want upon me
so much as yours
but the way you look at me
is ever so scary.

What you may see
frightens me.

You claim not to judge
but we both know how good you you are
at that very simple thing
and though I see only kindness in your gaze
what if I’m missing the pity?
I am petrified of how pathetic
you may know Me to be.

I’m sure the only reasonable thing
left to do
is to blind myself to your charms
so I need never see you look at me
again, but I don’t know
if I could bear that
just as
I can’t imagine this life
with your eyes boring into me
on and on
like that
forever.

What is this thing called morning?
It seems to have escaped you completely
though nauseous flashes
toilet rushes
and a pulsing eyelid
are all recent memories.
You mutter yourself awake today
finally.

The scrawled notes on last night’s napkin tatters
would make sense
maybe
if you could remember more
of an earlier twelve hours
but the words on the pages,
almost in your handwriting,
are from no language you recognize,
certainly none that your strobelight skull
seems capable of translating
this early aching afternoon.

Who can remember the crimes of Tuesday?
And what would be the point
of those faraway recollections
anyways?
Better just to struggle through the day
hustling ahead
trying to make sense of what’s left
of the hours until you can attempt sleep again
if your intestines ever let you.