jonberger

There are times when the chance comes before you
and you have to decide if you are boy
or girl
or fish enough
to take it
for opportunities of that ilk
do not simply turn tail
and come back in the door
the next day
ringing the doorbell with a jaunty iteration
of ‘shave and haircut’
attached to itself.
That ain’t how opportunities
go about their business.

Nope. In the infinite fertility
of the cruel universe
this is the one life you live,
the chance you get
so go. Have a ball.
Make a decision.
Do the daring or the dastardly
or the darned determined action you deserve.
Whatever gets boats floated.

Me, I’ve got a chance
to own the domain name
to bergeratbzgrill dot com
but a) do I dare bite the bullet
and take the plunge? and b)
what would I say to all the folks
who’d refuse to abandon
indiefly dot rubric slash bzgrill featuring colon Jon Berger dot html backslash Berger rocks really?

How can I address these issues
and quickly
before somebody snaps up
this prime virtual real estate?
Chances like this just don’t come
twice in a lifetime.

Remember when you told me
to write about the mangroves
and I didn’t and instead
I wrote about not writing about the mangroves
and in it I just used the word mangroves a lot?

I just looked at that piece yesterday.
Don’t know why it crossed my path.
It might be
that it shared a word with another piece
I was looking for
and it jumped out at me.
Strange world.

Anyway! No sooner did the piece
hit me in the head
with all its mangrovia
than I see reference to Mangroves elsewhere
when talking about the Florida Keys
and then yet again
(Holy Baader-Meinhof, Batman!)
when I suddenly see mangrove after mangrove after frigging mangrove
protecting the coastline
of the land I am in
reminding me for the umpteenth
how fragile every ecosystem can be
to disruption
from even the mildest forces of decay.

It would be a shame
if this beautiful beach fell to decay.
I think you’d have liked it here
if you got out of your head enough
to enjoy it.

Anyway redux(!)
after all that talk
I later happened to pass by a mango grove.
What’re the odds of THAT?!

I smell something.
I smell something strange
and I think that I’m worried
but nobody else has commented
and what do I know?
I have a lousy sense of smell.
I’ve had a stuffed nose
since before puberty
(no relation).

(I assume there’s no relation).

(Why would there be
any relation
between puberty
and a historical inability to smell?
That would just be bizarre).

It’s probably nothing.
It’s most certainly nothing.
Better minds than mine
have looked into, certainly,
and guessed and assessed
that there is no smell
and no danger

associated with the absence of smell
and everything is all right after all
and nothing at all could possible go wrong
and we will survive
this horribly deathlike stench
that permeates everything
and Lord please forgive me
I had no idea what I was doing with my nose
those prepubescent months
and I shall never –

It’s all right.

Nothing rotten here…
We are in a place
which does absolutely not
stink to high heaven
and all is truly right with the world.

I’m sorry I’m not there
to celebrate your love.
I hope it is a good love
a strong love
a love that will stand the test of time
unlike the last one
or the one before that
or the many others that preceded
your long and elastic life
until now.
I am sure this one alone
will not snap.

I regret being unable
to help usher in
this new era of joy and rapture
and beauty and pleasure
and high spirits
in the face of all others
but you announced this new era so quickly
after the last
and I had plans.

I hope you forgive my absence
but sometimes
somebody’s got to go it alone
and get things done on his own
and anyway
the third season of Better Chauffeurs
was simply not going to watch itself.

Enjoy your miracles
on this special blessed day
and I’ll enjoy mine.
I’ll try harder to be there for you
if I ever get another chance.

But I thought I hated that song.
I could swear I swore
I would never listen to that song again
and if I did
it was only after I’d pour lye down my ears
then doused them with Lysol
and finally turned the power off
of whatever device I was playing that song through.

I don’t recall quite what it was
that elicited such a strong reaction from me
but I remember distinctly
somehow that that was a song
that I did not like,
like, a lot.
Does it maybe have the same title
as another song
or sound exactly like another release
by the same artist
or perhaps came out
at the same time
as another song that broke my heart
or… I don’t know!

Why did I hate this so?
It sounds so catchy.
It’s got a great beat
and you can dance to it, and
oh.
Oh, that was dumb.
Oh, what the hell was that?

What in the name of all that’s unholy –
Yeah, I remember now.

Be wary
for you are not at home.
This is not a land for the poet
or the fine artist.

This is a raucous land
full of vigor and venom
and vitriol for the sensitive
and the soft.
This place is dangerous
for the soft.

Gain your callouses quickly.
Learn to pack the muscles
ontonyour heart so that
as sweet as you are
you can defend yourself
against the cruelties of this city
and its council
who will crush just as soon
as welcome you
and offer you its very keys.

Get strong
so you don’t have to fight back
because if you seem strong enough
they won’t dare to attack
in the first.

Build your offenses
as an artist.
It is the only way
to survive in this town
you have so foolishly entered
or any other that you may dare.

She said she recognized me
from the open mic
a couple of weeks ago.
I said it was possible.
I’m a pretty memorable guy.
My name is Jon.
She nodded. She said I did poetry
or comedy or storytelling or journalism of something.
I said sure, something.
That’s why I do
when I go to the open mic.

I smiled
and I was laid back
because I am a very cool sort of cucumber.
Then she said I was wearing the same pants
and I felt a lot less chilled.

We’re talking an open mic
a couple weeks back, right?
I asked, and she was.
I nodded. I have other slacks like these,
I explained.
Maybe they just looked like them
she suggested.
That’s probably it, too
I said.

Maybe she was mistaken
or I had washed clothes between our meetings
or my fashion tastes run parallel,
so all my slacks bear similarities.

I do not wear the same pair of pants
for weeks on end
until someone notices
or someone can smell them.
I am not that sort of fellow.
It is important
that you understand that salient fact
before we have
any further conversations
and recognize that I actually have
more pants at home.

I feel quite safely secure
that were I in my right head
I would not have heard the sorts of things
that from my lips were said.

I suspect that were I more awake
or had I better sleep
the sounds I’m loudly bursting
would have made nary a peep.

But at this time the stupid things
we’re doing – collectively –
seem to be exclusively
my responsibility.

Of course, that’s never truly true.
Society’s at fault.
For without the gears of everyone else,
all my awfulness would quite simply halt.

So while I’ll take some blame for sumpin’,
like, say, jerking off in your spleen…
you should really talk to my parents:
their genetics made me mean.

How was the unpacking?
Is the studio all set up now
with half the books
and records
and is all the rented furniture working out OK?

How’s the view?
Can you see the old neighborhood
with the dog run from there?
Is the old street visible?
Can you see our cul-de-sac?

Are there people in the building
that look like
they might become new friends?
Anyone you can hang with after work?
Anyone with which to spend time
over the weekends?

Is there anyone you might like?

Tell me how
it’s going for you.
I really want to know.
I hope it’s going well.

I hope you find
what you’re looking for.

Stop. Take stock.
All right, so
you’re frozen
deerstruck in the intersection
with the car blazing forward
with its flashing lights atop
probably making it a cop car.
The stroller’s been shoved out of the way
so the kid’s safe.
Check.

The drunk
prone by the lamppost
with one eye open
let his bottle fall
rolling into the street
but its path has slowed to a crawl
because of the adrenaline-paralysis
overwhelming all sensory inputs.
A biker avoids the siren-swirling police
racing to their emergency
swerving right into that bottle
exploding it
letting a particularly long piece fly
direct into my thigh.

The biker is safe.
Check.

The drunk is safe.
Check.

The cops arrive safely
to their emergency
without running me over.
Check.

The resting bum’s single slit eye
has a view of the entire chain of events
once time kicks back into gear
and everyone survives the events.
Shattered glass avoids him entirely
so he is free to see the blood
tearing down my slacks
I think
as I stumble to the sidewalk.

He checks to see if I’m all right.
I nod
I think
before I stop
and take stock
again
for a very long time.