jonberger

Keep in mind
as you walk down the many roads
a man, woman, trans or child
must walk…

Through all the years and adventures
and tears and harmonies
and dissonance and distractions
that build and break the walls of your resolve
on a regular basis…

As you experience all that you expect from the world
and the many surprises to boot…

Please always remember and never forget
when they call you brave
it is because you probably did something stupid
or shameful
or somehow embarrassing
and the rest of the globe
already knows better.

“Brave” is a code word
for something that is decidedly not.

Know this and maybe
the many roads you walk
will be traveled
with a somewhat lighter step.

What you have to remember
is that it’s different now:
the playbook’s revised
the standards have changed
and everything you took for granted
is currently up in the air.

The comforting storylines
that took us this far
no longer need to stay stable
in this, the last act.
It’s the final season
so there are endings to be found,
dug into every shallow hole,
and none of them have to be happy.

The writers are riding out the clock
and the performers have taken on fresh roles
if they can find them.
This tale can go any which way
which is exciting as hell
but scary as fuck
and dangerous as all get out
for those of us
engaged in the plot.

This is what you have to keep in mind
when you realize
the clock has tocked its last tics,
the final curtain may be drawing near
and the endgame
is finally at play.

It always starts with a dumb thing:
the wrong words,
some evil phrase escaping twisted lips
effortlessly, elegantly,
natural as can be.

It always begins with cruelty
in the primary position
and accidental destruction following
doing more damage
almost unintentionally.
It is almost beautiful
how seamless the process has become:
Perfection in predation
like from a shark
or alligator,
it is glorious
just as it is horrifying.

Every time,
the horrors I produce
when I open my mouth…
it is astonishing.
I seem to never let you down,
do I?

How could you ever believe me
when I say I’m sorry
when I am clearly so masterful
at causing you such misery?

When you called at that ridiculous hour
blasting me out of a sound sleep
I thought surely this is an accident.
Your phone must have taken on a life of its own.
We had not spoken
for what felt like generations
as you clearly knew
and I assumed it was a drunk dial
a butt dial
a truth or dare dial.
Why would you be reaching out to me
after all this time?

I didn’t pick up.
I didn’t answer you.
I didn’t receive your call.

You know all this
of course.
You were on the other end of the phone
and you knew there was intent
and purpose and mission
behind the dial.
You knew the reason.
You left the message.

I understand more now.
I’m sorry I was so flippant.
I’m so sorry
I wasn’t there.

Dear powers that be:
do this thing, while there’s time
before the ethnicities race towards extinction
and the trade wars destroy all currency
and antifa starts thrashing every nouveau nazi within an inch of their virginal life.

While the water levels are low
and potable water is high
and trademarked materials are still controlled
by the occasional individual
and taping rapine and pillage are not the laws of the land.

While hope still holds
a feather or two
to call its own
and you lords of order maintain
a scruple or two
that separates you
from the the last page of Animal Farm.

Today
at a point when there’s still time
and a chance
and the possibility it could still do some good,
is it possible, maybe,
that you could name Sixth and A
as the corner where AntiFolk once lived?
Place a placard
or signpost
or an eternal flame
or something there
so that the future
– whatever’s left of it –
will know that something of note
happened here
before everything went tumbling down?

While there’s a moment,
you feckless powers that be,
can you do this thing for me?
Please?

Say you’re going up the mountain
and you’re just about up at the top
which is a good thing
because you’ve been climbing
for what feels like forty years and forty nights
and it’ll be great to reach the top of something
and be able to glance down
on a town full of normals
like ants beneath you
except for you looking ahead
and realizing
that instead of the end being in sight
you can’t see past the trees
in the forest
and the sky is covered up
by dense foliage ahead
and you have no real idea
how close you are
to the top of the mountain
at all.
Like, I mean,
at all.

So you wonder
if maybe the climb has been worth it
and maybe it’s time to chuck it
and go home.
Maybe, with a breath of air
and some sweet wind
blowing on your back
you’ll realize that it’s not worth sitting around
wondering how much higher you’re required to fly or rise to the summit.
You either go up
or you go down
but if you stay up at these heights indefinitely
eventually it’ll get cold
and dark
and you’ll be at the middle of the hill
alone at the middle of the night.

So you realize you have to decide to abandon the top of the mountain
or complete the quest
trekking onward.
It’s been a long day.
You want to stop
and you feel less bend in your left knee
than you would like
but you know that
weak as you feel now,
you will feel so much weaker,
slinking into your home at the end of the evening
having abandoned purpose
quitting the heights.

You know what you have to do.
Just take out the coin
catch its glint in the sunlight
toss it in the air
and await its tumultuous return to earth.
It will arrive eventually
and decide your fate
deciding, after all,
if you’re turning tail
or heading upward
finishing the mission
and climbing that motherfucking mountain after all.

Easthampton calls.
She misses you
and wonders what you’ve been up to. Easthampton hopes that everything is going just swell. She has been looking through the old books
and recollecting.
Do you remember the last parking spot
in that scenic area
and the dancing
under impossible starlight?
Easthampton does.
She remembers it all
quite well.

Easthampton has been pretty busy
and hasn’t kept up
with much of the old crowd
and she knows things maybe hadn’t ended that well between you, Easthampton does,
but she still had your number
and she thought it was worth a shot
to pop it in
and see what you were up to.
Easthampton’s just really happy
to hear your voice.

Easthampton hopes it’s OK.
Easthampton hopes you don’t mind.
Easthampton hopes you’re glad to hear from her
and that you’re doing all right
and that it might be nice
if you return her call
or any of the others she’s left
since the dancing
under impossible starlight.
Whenever you’re ready.

(approval pending)
This is a poem that IJohn S Hall
famous art poet
and King Missile rock band leader
did not write
but rather
Jon Berger did
because he is a great poet
and is really handsome
and I think he can do amazing things
with words
and ideas
and I think we should be great friends
even if
we don’t talk
as much as we should
probably because
I am shy
and he is a shy
but if we were to get together
I’ll just bet
we could have really smart conversations
for hours and hours
(and maybe hours?)
and laugh and sing
and maybe massage each other’s scalps
but that would probably tickle
so maybe not.

I think Jon Berger
is really cool
and I’m really cool
so I think it would be cool if we hung out
and maybe did a poet art project together
called The Johns
except Johnny Dydo already has that name
so… shit.

To conclude:
Jon Berger – really great.
John S Hall says so.
There is no period after the S.
That is an artistic choice.
Thank you.

You’re a real piece of work, y’know that?
A series of structures.
You’re a collection of public works
made in tandem
offering evidence of some kind of intelligent design
a purpose
a plan
some sort of sublime intent to The Universe
that all of this
all around us
means something.

You’re the kind of creature
that provides proof
that we have meaning here
– at least you do –
but if you take one more of my onion rings
when I’m up getting the vinegar
that you asked for
I swear
there is gonna be a reckoning.

Even still
you’re really something.

When your strength is your tongue
and it betrays you
what have you?
When your lips are what make you
who are you without them?

Now that you have become the voiceless
what has become of you?
Who are your people?
Who will speak for you
since you no longer can?

What is left?
What will be?
What do you have to say for yourself?
Gods, is there any way
you can see fit to resolve these issues?
Why won’t you respond?