jonberger

Knowledge is power.
They always say that
don’t they?
So perhaps, then,
understanding can be considered nothing
but a valuable commodity, as well.
Knowing how you fit in
within certain social strata
will allow easier comprehension
of what you are capable of accomplishing
and what you are not.

Realizing your place in the culture
must be gratifying
because then
you needn’t worry
about whether the walls are whispering
any sinister secrets
behind backs
or preparing poisons
to be released into any particular raisin tarts.
It is better that this is all in the open,
is it not?
Wouldn’t you rather
everything be clear?

Certainly, there is value
in knowing where you belong
where you do not,
who considers you worthy
who knows you are not,
when you are allowed to eat with your betters
and when you are not.
It is fine
when that is all on the table
don’t you think?

Of course you do.

You may close the door as you leave.

If I had gone to camp
when I was a kid
– a real camp.
Sleepaway camp –
then I’d have been prepared
for life away from the cocoon
of my family
before I’d reached college
and maybe
I wouldn’t have spent
those first few weeks
locked up in my room
listening to all the drunken conversations
outside my door
while I wondered
how everyone knew
how to handle one other so well
all as I avoided my own isolation
and profound loneliness.

I’d have been better prepared
had I only gone to Camp Fhockamuck
or wherever my parents wanted to send me
but I whined and wheedled my way out of it
and instead stayed home
rereading comic books
and wondering if there was anything
that could relieve the boredom
of my lonely New York summers.

If those first few collegiate weeks
had run smoother
than maybe I would have dated Freshman year
and not merely followed girls around
all that season.
Perhaps some lovely lass
might have plucked my autumnal flower
and I’d not have been so traumatized
when it finally
tragically
happened.

Everything might have been on a different time table
with dramatically different results
if I’d been sent to camp
and learned to behave
like a human being
instead of making do
and putting things together
much later
and so much more poorerly.

If I’d only gone
to Camp Fhockamuck
or something like it.

I feel like, in some way,
I have erred.
When I shouted out
during your open mic set
that you should change your band name
– a band that didn’t yet quite exist –
to House Dad
and got the audience all riled up
shouting all along with me
up and down the aisles
“House Dad! HOUSE DAD!”
and then convinced you
perhaps against your will
to form that band
and call it House Dad
and buy the domain name
and the cards
and the billboards
I was perhaps impertinent
and certainly premature.

For in the bright light of morning
it has occurred to me
how ill-fitting an identity that would be
for you and your cohorts.
You (and yours) deserve a better brand
that that poorly provided nomenclature
I so hastily bestowed last night.
I’m sorry for before.
Please accept “Realty Dad” as my apology
along with hearty hopes
that you can get a partial deposit back
on the billboards.

You’re welcome.

More and more
in the midst of suffering fools in the world
I notice in their eyes
an increase of impatience
as they prepare their excuses
and seek to make their respective getaways from me.
From me.

The very people
I am teeth-gritting,
not-hitting,
not-quite-hating
yet barely tolerating,
are politely seeking escape
from my company
– which is fine, I suppose.
These are people
(such as they are)
never worth my time,
by my own esteemed estimations,
so being out of their presence is all to the good.
But that fact that that feeling might be reciprocated?
Frankly, it hurts.

How can people be so heartless?
Don’t they see
that I am but a man
with emotions
and blood that bleeds
when cut to the quick
from such short shrift?
I ache from these wounds
and the insensitivity
of those who treat me so.

I am better than that.
Why should they judge me
that way?

They suck.
I’m glad I judged them first.

My window’s open.
My door’s unlocked.
My gate’s ajar.
I am not protecting my shit anymore.
You can have it.

If it’s important enough
to jump fences
climb walls
sneaks through the barriers.
If another needs to take such dangerous risks
how can I claim
that I need to hold anything
so closely?
What right do I have
to close my door to anyone?

Let them have it.
Let us break open all the forts
and let those that need to survive
survive with us.
I don’t have much
but I believe
I have enough to share.

Lesley Gore sang songs of empowerment.
She said she’d cry if she wanted.
She told us not to tell her what to do
and that we didn’t own her
at a point when we needed to hear it
but Lesley Gore is dead
and I don’t know
if I want to be empowered
anymore.

Maybe you should tell me when to cry.
Maybe you do own me.
Maybe it’s your party.

Tell me what to do.

If you ask what a poem is about,
do not be surprised
to receive an answer like,
“it is about the spectral wind”
or “have you ever experienced
an autumn melancholy?
It very much like that
– but in boysenberry”
or maybe “it’s about two
and a quarter minutes”

for poets are a suspicious and cowardly lot,
ill-suited to describe their own art,
much as they love to speak of themselves
– for what subject should be a poet’s favorite but “me?”
A poet will want the work itself
to do the heavy lifting
of explication
and not require the poet to get any further involved.
Poets are lazy.
Poets are efficient.
Poets seek economy in language
and don’t wish to have to repeat
if it can be avoided.

Because poets wish to avoid
the redundancy of repetition
they’ll provide some dumbass answer
to get you annoyed enough
to leave them alone
so you will have to dig deeper
to understand their work.
Or maybe they don’t really understand
what they did at all.

I can’t tell you how often that is the case
for some poets.

You’re a fucking idiot
if you think you can keep drawing
from the same account indefinitely
and expect never to receive
some sort of penalty.
Everyone suffers from withdrawal
eventually.

How did you think
that account would continue recouping
and reconstituting value,
month after year,
for an endless eon?
Why would you suspect
that could go on forever?
How blessed did you believe
you actually were?

No, your good fortune
ain’t eternal
and you won’t be able
to call upon any of the amounts you thought available
anymore.
There’s nothing left,
which you should have seen coming
long ago,
fucking idiot.

If you have a father, happy Father’s Day.
If you have a mother, thank her for her part.
If you have a sister, go in on a gift for that mister.
If you have a kid, accept their finger-painted art.

If you’re born with a twin, pretend that you’re him.
If your dad’s got one, confuse him for yours’,
and if you’re one of those identical cousins…
share all the rest of the best hors d’oeuvres.

If you celebrate things, then celebrate well.
If you have a good time, then try that today
but if it is your preference to just sit and whine
and suffer for hours, then get to it, OK?

I wish I’d known more
about what you were going through
so I could have helped you
(so I could have saved you
{so I could have appeared
in the nick of time
as the Big Strong Hero
and protected you,
offered you all the Big Strong Man things you needed,
and you could look at me
with Big Sweet Doe eyes
and swear that I was your hero
and you would say
you’d do anything to thank me
and I’d say anything?
and you’d say anything
and then I’d get a slightly dumbfounded
slightly creepy look on my face
and the scene would fade
before I did anything really wrong}).

But we both know
I don’t really subscribe
to those misguided old school gender stereotypes
(not really)
and you don’t need me to
(not at all)
since you’re so strong and capable yourself
but I know you were having trouble then
and I wish I was around to help
and maybe get to be there
if you ever
(at any time
{at all})
felt helpless.