jonberger

That particular smile
you displayed in that vacation picture
when you strode atop that monument
having reached such heights with your friends
on such a day
as such an accomplishment
while I
awaited receipt of the image
along with the other gifts you’d eventually send…
it is a joyous smile.
Free.
Perfect.
You seem at peace
and complete
in a way I don’t recall ever seeing before.

I wish I had seen it before.
I wish I had provided it.
I wish I were in the fucking state when it occurred
and I wish
we hadn’t agreed
on separate vacations.

When you come back
if you come back
we are clearly due a talk.

It was either a slam dunk
or a cataclysm.
The beginning of the end
or the end of the terrors.
I’ll let you know
when I know for sure.
It was the wretchedness
or the rockin’ pneumonia.
The remains of the wrong
or the righteous rising.
The rhythm of the night
or the writing on the wall.

It was the best thing in life
of the freedom to fail
being availed
in all its terrible glory
for all to see.
I just can’t tell
so I just can’t tell you
what it was
just yet.

I’m glad that you like me.
In the grand sense
that’s all I really want
but in the microcosm
I’m a little too fragile in my masculinity
about the specifics.
I’m not sure that I appreciate
that you like me
because I remind you
of your retarded grandma.

How do you even have a retarded grandma?
How would that work?
Was your grandmom, like,
molested and then your great grandparents raised your mother
and your grandmother just kind of sat around – shit!
That’s EXACTLY how it played out?
Damn!

So how is it that someone
with my intuitive genius
would remind you of her?
What goes on here?

This comparison
to your grandmother…

is it because of complexion
or height
or our favorite color shirt
or something like that?
It’s not some vacuous gaze
or the way the drool collects or
how we might have composed our thoughts
is it?

Maybe
don’t answer me
until I’ve spent some more time
with your grandma.

I suppose I have the rats to thank.
As they eat through my pantry
I find myself with limited resources
and thus
I can now embrace simplicity.

The rats have offered me
an opportunity to live with less.
I become lighter
due to their influence.
I learn to thrive with limitations.

I become a better person
because of the rats
and their entry into my life
and my larder.

They are also nibbling on my clothes
so I don’t seem too majestic
or fashionable, either.
Truly, the rats have done me
many a great service.

I begin to suspect
the rodents might have bitten away
a bit of my brainpan, as well,
perhaps surgically removing
my ability to criticize them.
Well done, creatures.
Well done indeed!

I didn’t buy your fourth album
at the time it came out
because I thought I knew you well enough
that you would give it to me
for free.
I did not.
I don’t know why I thought I did.
We knew each other, sure,
but I don’t know what got into my head
to think I deserved anything from you.
I was not entitled to any gifts
or time or attention from you.
It was ridiculous to imagine anything but.
I see that now.

But in the time it took
for revelation
your record went out of print
which is almost certainly the wrong term for vinyl
and the record company folded
and then they stopped making cassettes
(they being the world
I guess)
and then CDs
and now, I’d be happy to buy a retro LP
but I don’t know if you’ve started making them
or if you even remember who I am.
Do you?

And… do you think you could send me
that fourth album,
whether I deserve it or not?
I’d really like to know
what you were up to
back then
when we kind of knew each other.

When you say you’re speaking about King Louis
and then mention the land of France,
you may in your mind
believe that you’ve clarified
just a little
which Louis you may be referring to
but there were sixteen the first time around
and at least three afterwards.

Odds are
you’re talking about fourteen
because all told
he was Louis for more time
than anyone else got to be Louis.
In terms of years
he was King Louis fifteen percent of all the French kings of that name
which, considering he was only one of almost twenty,
is fairly substantial.

But you didn’t specify,
which really cuts into the pretentious figure
you no doubt wanted to cut
when you referenced King Louis in the first place.
So, you wanna recoup a little cred
and offer a bit of clarity?
You mean the Sun King, Catorze
or the executed, Sixteen?
Maybe the Universal Spider, back in the Fifteenth Century?
Or the Fat, in the Twelfth?

Whatchoo talkin’ ’bout here?
Which of the many Louis Louis,
King, man,
do you want?
Oh, you gotta go now?

I couldn’t find your apartment today.
That place that was once like Mecca to me
the veritable epicenter of my thoughts, hopes and avenues of expression,
the place,
the place,
THE PLACE
where it all went down
once
and then again
and back again.

All that.
I was near
– unlike you –
and I thought enough time had past
so I might stop by the entrance
and pay homage
but I couldn’t find it.

The block had changed
or I had changed.
Maybe I’ve grown
and the same old fetishes have lost their meaning
and I no longer am stuck in the same old patterns.
Maybe I don’t see you
and those days
the way I did.
Maybe my glasses have changed their tint.

Or
perhaps my glasses are the same
and my eyes have suffered
literally.
Maybe I just couldn’t see the numbers right.
It’s really been a long time
and I’ve become a very old man.

Whatever has become of you?

I’d say “break a leg,”
but I don’t want you to break anything.
I could give you a thumbs up
which looks pretty insincere
or a patriarchical, supercilious “you can do it.”
I’d suggest “good luck,”
but that’s kind of lame,
which goes back to my first thought, and…
ooh, never mind.

I’m sure you’ll do well,
whatever I say
whatsoever I may hope.
I know you are fine on your own
independent and strong
and capable of standing on your own slightly webbed feet
without any assistance
or guidance or nothing from no one,
but I hope you do great
and even if I don’t say it right
or at all,
I’m behind you.

I’m there for you
and good luck
or something.

You can see me better than I can:
are those ear hairs
streaming out of my ears?

Obviously,
those are not nose hairs in my ears
but I am feeling something.
Are they ear hairs?
What else could they be?

What else would I experience
and what else should I expect
as a man of a certain age
with certain groans as I stand
and certain cracks as I sit?
Of course my ears are hairy
and my head is bald
and my nose is runny
and my legs are weak
and my back is pocked
and my ears
– god, my ears…

Jeez,
it feels like silk on these things.

You know there doesn’t have to be a joke
at the end, right?
That’s not a necessity.
You think it is
to maintain interest
but it’s at the end
so you don’t really have to worry about interest anymore
and hopefully
those listening to you
will be charmed by other aspects
anyway.

Humor
is only one tool
available in your kit
and you needn’t feel
that it be pulled out
with such required frequency.
You have other things going for you
and you’re not as funny as you think.

You can be effective
in more ways
that you believe possible
with a wider palette of colors than you’d conceive
if you didn’t simply rely
on the first set of tricks and trinkets
that come to your mind.
You can be more
and maybe you will be;
seriously.