jonberger

Until it’s over, I’ll remain on tiptoes.
Until it’s over, I may whisper on the phone.
Until it’s over, my trenchcoat collar stays in place.
Until it’s over, my true face won’t be shown.

Once we get the guy, I can open up the gates.
Once we get the guy, it’s back to normal.
Once we get the guy, I can leave some things to fate.
Once we get the guy, I’ll give oral.

If the news is good, my mask goes off at last.
If the news is good, we will dance.
If the news is good, you’d be in my arms already,
for if the news was good, you’d have told me in advance.

Every time I see Nancy, I cannot help but smile.
She always makes me do it; she’s trained me for a while.
She passes me a giftie each moment we meet
so when she tends to cross my mind, I think of something sweet.

A chocolate enters my mouth whenever we come close.
If we’re together longer: I get a double dose.
The little globes she give me make my tummy swell.
There’s no doubt about it: Nancy feeds me well.

I do not know her greater plan, if I’m to grow too large
to be eventually sent off onto some great barge
or worse – sailed between the ships, bouncing in the sea
too voluminous for cargo but to be moved through buoyancy.

Whatever is her greater scheme, I accept it whole.
Whether I’m the victim, or I become the goal.
I will do whatever it may be that Nancy tells
for there is no arguing that Nancy feeds me well.

She was Spring to me for a season,
or for a second of a season
or I said she was, at least.
These things seem transient,
in youth.
In the Spring of our youth.

For a moment,
she seemed so important,
an image of her seared so strongly into my skull,
it hasn’t left, scores of years later.
Her name takes me longer to recall…

I’ve got it.
It just takes a bit.
Gosh, she was pretty.

She was Spring.

“He looks like Andy Warhol,” she said.
I turned around. “Who?”
“The guy with the black glasses, black t-shirt,
standing right there,” she replied, starry-eyed.
I tripled-checked the view.
I saw an aging punk wearing a black shirt and glasses and a couple of lovely ladies,
and exactly no Factory-looking folk.
“I guess I just don’t see it,” I said.
“That’s because you’re looking at the wrong guy,” she coldly responded.

“All right,” I answered.
Soon enough, the punk walked out,
and the lady pointed at him: “you look like Andy Warhol!”
He decidedly did not.
Maybe it was a private joke between them.

About ten minutes later,
the punk shuffled the lady inside,
seeming to guide her.
Perhaps she had sight issues
That would explain so much…

Trying to coerce Alabama fish
to pro-Palestinean course of action is not easy.

Really, all I’m looking for, though,
is to get them to see both sides of the issue,
ensure that they’re not entirely Zionist in their approach.

Since these sea-creatures refuse to talk to me about the issue,
I’m not making much headway.

Probably it would be much easier if I could breathe underwater.
Or speak to sea life.

Perhaps communicating telepathically, like Aquaman,
would be a boon,
but I’m not a fictional comic book character,
so that’s out.

I’ll just have to continue to fly down to Tallahassee on weekends
and still my head in the water
to convince the Greenbreast Darter to listen to my entreaties…

You’re telling me Tallahassee isn’t even in Alabama,
where the Greenbreast lives?

Now I have to start all over again!

I want to comfort the tortured poet,
help her overcome the pain she’s developed
over the heartbreak and suffering
from all the boys she continues to meet.

I want to roll her out of the department
she seems to return to
time and again
and bring her somewhere new
where she can find a new way to be
a new way with me,
someone who could appreciate her
and not take her for granted,
not fail to adore her
for the tortured poet she is,
love her for the fearless lover,
the one with the midnight reputation,
the 1989 red folklorist.

I want to care
as no one has before.

I want to do all that
and maybe stay in a mansion or two.
I could do that, too.

Taylor, I could be a tortured poet for you.

I waited for weeks for my credit card to arrive
only to discover that my upstairs neighbors
had simply not given it to me.

I do not use credit cards often,
else it would have been a bigger deal.
Luckily, I have a place to complain about unessential issues like this.

Friends?
People have friends for communication issues?
Hardly.
I have my art!

I could have neighbors,
were they ever to communicate with me
in a timely manner.

I have the flies that enter my apartment somehow,
which will be the subject of my next minor opus:
Flies.
You may find it on a screen near you.

What’s weird about Imperium City
is that it’s a stochocracy:
rule by lottery.

The leader’s are picked by chance,
so there’s no imperial rule
in Imperium City,
like if Kansas City were in Missouri.

All right, bad example.
Like if Paris were in Texas – shit!
You get the idea. Imperium City is a weird name.
Also it doesn’t exist.

Maybe that’s the weirdest part about it.

But somebody should look into that Kansas City sometime…

The waterbug didn’t need to die,
but she asked
and I didn’t want her anxious
and it seemed the most expedient way.

I stepped on it (them? I’m not sure if the dead
or those of insect sort care about gender identity)
and then picked up the remains with a receipt.
The remains went into the compost pile
and the receipt went into recycling.

"All good?" I asked.
"Thanks," she said.
All good.

I went back to what I was doing,
but thoughts lingered with me
enough to consider if my actions were right.

Was the paper still recyclable with bug on it?
To this day, I still wonder.

I fell for her like a broken elevator.
I broke for her like a fallen elevator, too.
I don’t think that I’ll allow myself to break that way again,
I’m telling you.

But I’m lying to myself, like I always do.
You probably can see it, can’t you?
The way I look at you, it may be pretty obvious,
how fast I’m falling. How fast I’m falling.

And I want to keep it secret. I want to keep my feelings secret
but that’s not something I can do.
Everything I feel, everything I want can be seen right on my face,
you can tell it’s true.
And that’s just fine.
I’m no good at being clandestine.

If the spies caught me to get top secret info
and said torture would be used.
I’d say I would hold out, but I’d just beg
to be recused.

Not a bit of torture would prove necessary,
‘cuz I’d break out data instantly without any contrary
argumentation. Information would be theirs for the taking.
It wouldn’t matter how easy I’m breaking. I’m always breaking.

And I want to keep a secret. I want to hide all of the secrets
but that’s not something I can do.
Everything I feel, everything I believe can be seen right in my eyes.
You can see it’s you.
And that’s just fine;
I’ve never been good at clandestine.

I cannot tell a lie.
I ate the cherry pie.
I’m always do or die.
You ask me why ask why
and I’ll provide an answer.
My mother’s sign was cancer – No!
It was Aquarius! What about us?

And I want to keep a secret. I want to hide a secret
but that’s not something I ever could do.
Everything I feel, everything I want can be seen right on my face.
You must know it’s true.
And that’s just fine;
I’ll never be much good at clandestine.
(I don’t like wine.
My real name’s Bergerstein.
The growth is benign.
I’ve an increasing waistline.
I may have crossed the line…)