When we first met
I was more interested in your blonde friend
but when you first massaged my cock
my priorities sort of shifted.
You were so warm and friendly
and smart and pretty
and willing to do interesting things
in more interesting places
than your friend was
so I’m kind of glad things turned out
the way they did.
Thank you
for shifting my priorities
so deftly
with just a flick of a wrist.
I live on the rags and bones
of other people’s lives
perhaps because it is easier
than finding things of my own.
Choosing takes responsibility
and it is certainly easier
in this land of opportunity
to take the opportunity
to cede responsibility
and let passivity be my guide.
So I let the dumpster decide
where my next meal comes from
or what fashion I shall wear
the next season
just as I let the season decide
what sort of activities
will accommodate my active schedule.
I dine on the carrion left
of other’s choices.
Like a willow
I bend
and form
as whatever around me may wish.
And how does that work out,
blowing like a speck in a storm
surviving on scraps
doing the best
with whatever remains?
How is this simple sort of life?
Well…
What do YOU think?
Is it possible
that you’ve drunk enough tonight
to forget this conversation tomorrow?
Might you perhaps be so generous
as to lack the memory
to recall yesterday
when next you wake?
Is this a reasonable request?
Is it something you could consider?
I’d be forever grateful
and inconceivably appreciative
if you could remove today from your mind,
simply excise all these events
we’ve just now experienced
and run them through your erasure unit.
Please tell me you’ve got one of those.
Please tell me
you still remember
how to forget
and if not
is there any way
I can coerce you
into drinking another round
or maybe eight?
He said, This is a song about my cat,
but then, when you think about it,
aren’t all songs really about our cats?
We, the audience, thought about it,
and finally came to the conclusion that
No, we’re afraid not.
Not all songs are about cats.
Bohemian Rhapsody is not about cats.
Creep is not about cats.
Del Shannon’s Runaway isn’t about cats
and neither is Kanye’s.
Most of the Runaways’ songs aren’t about cats, either,
even though they are sometimes about pussy.
Hell, Memory from Cats isn’t even about cats.
To be honest, we had to admit,
we the audience are not very clear
on what you were trying to say.
May I sing my song?
The artist asked testily.
We let him.
It was, indeed, a song about his cat.
So was the rest of his set.
We didn’t understand what was going on
at all.
Believe it or not
she’s getting better.
The tears and tantrums
are signs that she’s processing through
some of this, at least.
Angry as she seems
she’s beginning to understand
the gravity of the situation
and is closer to addressing the weight of it all.
She yells and screams, surely
but each arch action
is an opportunity for her
to realize what’s wrong
and a chance to fix it.
After she throws something
she apologizes.
When she’s done berating the driver
she sleeps easily for the first time
in months.
It’s all signs of some improvement, really.
Even if it doesn’t quite seem like it.
Look at that face!
A face a mother would love
’til her dying day.
That boy looks smashing.
He’s gonna break a lot of hearts
with his enormous hands
when he digs deep into chest cavities
to grasp out the insides
of whomsoever he may choose
to first destroy.
That kid is a monster.
I can see it already.
The things he’ll do
with his teeth and his eyes…
it’s horrible to consider.
It’s a terror to imagine.
I saw him gum up the bars of his crib
as if to escape
and it looked like he’d done enough damage
to tear his way out.
Just think of the threat
when he’s a month old.
He’s a danger, this child.
He’s a problem in need of a solution.
He is the poster child for retroactive abortions
and I wish something could be done
but I fear it’s too late.
He may already be too powerful.
It may already be
that we are already all doomed.
To all the poets in the tri-state area
who are ripping off my words
my concepts
my phrasing
my general style…
I see what you’re doing.
I can tell.
I know.
Thank you so much.
You have no idea
how validating it is
to know that my work
is good enough to be stolen
by so many of you.
It really… words fail.
I wish there was something
some way I could show my appreciation
other than the Cease and Desist
Attack Squadrons accompanying
this notice.
I hope you understand
that your deaths mean to me
just as much
as your earlier thefts
and are only the beginning
of a worldwide purge.
Thank you again.
You have given me so much
with what you have taken.
Pretty sure I owe you an apology
for that half-assed compliment I gave
at your fifth grade recital
the other year.
It was knee-jerk and thoughtless
and had I thought about it more
I would not have been half so careless
with what I said.
I just never dreamed
you would take my words to heart like that
and believe in my praise
to such an extent
that you would go on
to try your hand
at musical theater
so tirelessly
so ceaselessly
so painfully.
I did not imagine
you would have it in you
to push yourself so hard
to work your fingers to the bone
all because you saw a life for yourself
working the boards
because of some stupid thing I’d done
in saying "good job,"
or "nice work,"
or whatever it might have been
that made you consider the possibility
that any of this
could at all be worth your time.
I was being polite, kid.
You were crap
like all the other worthless eleven year olds
in the room
and I could have been honest
but I had places to be
and I thought
"why say something negative
when you can get away
with something neutral?"
I see why now.
I’m so sorry you’ve wasted your life so far.
There’s no future for you in the pictures.
I can’t believe you took it so serious.
I feel responsible.
I won’t ever be so cavalier
with my compliments
again.
The kitten was very affectionate.
Before I sat down
it had approached
and he was in my lap
as soon as I’d formed one.
He nipped and nibbled
and pounced and played
having no suspicions
about this strange sweaty man
who’d so abruptly entered his world.
I made sure not to betray his trust
and pet and patted
stroking and staring lovingly
at this wonderful creature
who came and gave without taking.
He jumped on my shoulder
and sat on my head.
I laughed and laughed.
Pancho was a delight.
Meeting him
at Cuchi’s Repair Shop
was totally worth
the four hundred in fender damage
I spent while getting acquainting
and almost worth all the fleas.
with the Do-Not-Reply return address
and the subject header of
Ten Top Client Relationship Manager Jobs
for you
but included listings for twelve jobs
none of which were for the position
of Client Relationship Manager:
Look {sigh} I get it.
Life can’t be easy
for an automated email
especially for a company
that is seeking attention in difficult times.
You and your kind
– and I don’t mean to be divisive,
automated email,
but I think you can agree
that you and I are very different sorts of creatures, right? – will often resort to a misleading headline
to garner attention
but don’t you think
your attached website
and its attendant database
might be able to use a search paradigm
as simple as word recognition
to find me some job options
that might apply?
I am not a Web Developer.
I am not a UIX Designer.
I am not a Head of Product
or Vice President in Charge of Operations
or Sales Manager
or Sales Assistant
or Voice Consultant – must have tri-citizenship.
I don’t know what that even means.
I’m not even looking for work right now,
automated email,
and a lot of it is the fault
of fake new brokers
like your subject headline
momentarily making me believe
there were occupational opportunities
only to afterward discover there was nothing
in the city
that suited my skill set.
So I don’t know why you’re sending me anything, email,
and I certainly don’t know
why your listings are so damned atrocious.
Nobody wants me
and I wish you’d stop suggesting otherwise
or at least remind me less often
but more,
I wish I could remember my password
so I could go into your website
and unsubscribe the fuck
out of our relationship.
Yours in unemployment,
Jon
jonberger 