jonberger

Yeah, you could push me away.
You could send me back
to the bush leagues
remove me from your presence
end my existence as one
in your endless army of admirers.

You could demote me
or fire off missives of rejection
dejecting me constantly
tragically ranking me lower and lower
in your list of lovers
or at least claim it so.
You could bring me low
any number of ways
putting me on hold
for days and days
and days and days
and days!

You could call it quits
call me two shits
start a new Blitz
and attack my people
like in days of yore.
You could call me a bore
say my family lore
is naught but a snore
and that all I adored
is, in truth, but abhorred.
You could break up with me right now
say you’re done with me forevermore
but
you won’t be rid me so easily.

It takes two to tango
and I ain’t done dancing
just yet.
So you best watch
my step.
There’s more to see
from me yet.

I hope you sleep well.
I hope your dreams are not blackened
and maintain the hopes
you deserve to hold.
I hope your picnics remain pleasant
and the gnats are held at bay
or by the bay
in fetid pools of stagnant water
far away from where you lay
your checkered blankets.

I hope you earn your rest
just as you deserve to
and all your daydreams are kind
and honored by whomsoever fulfills such things
in this day and age.
I hope you can get what you want.

I hope you live to be fulfilled
and perfected
and grow up to be mature
and strong and secure in your complexity.
I hope you become everything
that you promise to be.
I hope you live through the night
and tomorrow goes far better
than today.

What if you’re invited to a party
and you’re the only one to show up
and it’s on an abandoned street corner
in the middle of the night
and there’s nothing around
but whistling wind
and shadows gathering closer
rapidly hurtling toward you
at a speed most disconcerting?

What if the party is nothing but loneliness
and danger
and a growing suspicion that you’ve been tricked
and maybe
while you’re isolated on some empty avenue,
your apartment is being ransacked
of the few things of value
you have left in the world?
What if you’ve been tricked?
What if you’re Carrie
hold the scary psionic superpowers?

But…
what if you got the address wrong?
What if you weren’t paying attention
and you took down bad information
and you’re waiting a block away from the right place
where all the wine, women, and winning smiles
are awaiting you?
What if this is all
just a misunderstanding?

Except we live in an age
where miscommunications
can be easily amended
and you are not in an easily articulated erroneous option.
You’d know immediately
if you were at the wrong place
or the wrong time
or any number of other What If situations.
You’d know already, surely,
if the Whats had Iffed
or anything else had happened.

You’ve got nothing left to consider tonight.
You know what happened
you just don’t want to consider it.
You’re just racking your imagination
for any other possibility
or explanation
to clarify why
you’d be out alone tonight
again.

If I’d only eaten more.
If I’d picked that last fight.
If I’d gotten another Happy Hour deal.
If I’d stayed in that Handicapped spot just a little bit longer… I know it would have all worked out better.
I’m sure it would have turned out all right.

I should have squatted in that abandoned building
and experimented on that squirrel
and robbed that old lady
and cheated her retarded daughter
and given candy to HER diabetic son.

Why the damn not?
If there’s a hell below
we’re all gonna go.
Why not take the pleasures
where you find them
while you can?

They audited my taxes
– which I’d cheated on –
and I got a huge refund.
There is no god.
There is more evil to do
and I’m damned anyway.
Let me get to it
before Happy Hour’s over.

The currency in Brazil is very Real.
Portuguese is from the same language base
as Spanish
but knowing a little Spanish from high school
isn’t very helpful in knowing Portuguese
especially when in high school
you barely passed Spanish.

The seasons in South America
are reversed from those
in real America
so even though it’s really summertime
they think it’s winter
but because it’s all happening
in a more temperate climate
they dress like it’s a comfortable autumn.

The women wherever I went
down there
would dress to impress,
and impressed I was, indeed.
Brazil is one good looking country
maybe because it’s full of mutts.
Immigrants mostly, they’ve intermingled blood
and created a super-race
if super-hot first generation half-breeds.

The prostitutes in Rio
are much quicker to exploit your credit card number
then the ones in São Paulo
and the credit card companies
are slower to rectify the error.
Still worth it.

They eat a lot of meat
and don’t seem to mind
if you point at things to order
because you can’t pronounce
even the simplest thing
– and spelling things
turns out not to work too well
if you’re unclear on the proper pronunciation
of the letters of the alphabet.

Smart sexy interns in the office
you’re training in
are no more impressed
when you’re an American visiting from New York
than when you’re actually in America
working in New York.

A month goes by quickly
when you’re having fun
and really really slowly
when you’re lonely.

They spell Brazil somewhat differently
in Brasil.

It’s kinda funny…
how you practice and proceed
for a thing
like a meeting
or an opportunity
or date for a really long time
like years
– well, maybe not years,
but you get where I’m going with this –
and you plot and plan
and scheme your way
all for a singular chance,
working and hoping and doing all the things
to make it happen
because it’s an important thing.
It’s THE important thing,

It’s the thing
that maybe all the other things hinge upon
(no big deal, though)
and you’re nervous as it comes up
because, well,
no pressure,
but all of the above.
You’ve done the work, though,
and you’re ready
dear god, you hope you’re ready
and the day comes up.

The clock strikes.
The interview
the meeting
or opportunity
or party
or date yes of course it’s a date
it’s always a date isn’t it
comes up
and everything’s lined up perfectly
for you to do what you have to do
and swish the basket
or hit the target
or whatever appropriate sport language
fits the metaphor
but you choke
because, hilariously,
you weren’t prepared.

You didn’t know what you were doing
and maybe you never will
and who knows
when another opportunity
will occur
because this one
this so very important opportunity
took so very long
and you don’t know if you have it in you
to wait for another
not that you know what to do
when it comes along
if it comes along, god help you
even though she never believed in you,
anyway.

Pretty funny, huh?

Wait – maybe that’s not the best word.
Maybe funny doesn’t cover it exactly.
Possibly, I’ve been thinking of a different word
all this time.

Here.
This is where we last spoke
when we last spoke
the last time
you let me in your presence.

This is the alley
and these are the seats
where we sat
talking idly,
quietly, trying to find words
other than goodbye
though that was all
there was really left to say.

That is the lamp
now broken
that then successfully reflected
a single salty tear
off of my face
or so you said.
I still suspect it was sweat.

But really it was windy
because what else
could explain the shivering
and your need to put arms around me
for hours
in this alley
as we waited
for your train
to take you away
until this very day.

It will be good
to see you again
if you ever can
come back
here.

He’s known him about as long as anyone
but that don’t mean he really knows him,
y’know?
That man’s been faded and shaded
through so many tones and variations
over the years
that whatever Brother David remembers
from way back Hibbing way
could be just some faint recollection
of a glimmer of a hazy memory
and memories, like someone said,
are just a foggy ruin of time
so what does Brother David really know,
anyhow?

He knew him then
and knows him now.
Too few can say that still.
They spend Christmas
or Passover or whatever holidays
he will choose to celebrate
this year.
Who can say?

Brother David could
but he don’t
except to remind
what he said long ago
about the man,
that ever since he’d changed his name
and started spinning those tales:
"He set out to become what he is."

Amen to that, Brother David.
Profound. Pure.
Not at all obscure:
truth.

Look, I would never say that.
Well, not use those exact words
but it’s pretty obvious
that our little contest
was not exactly fought fairly.
I mean, come on…

You were totally moving
more than just your thumb
to position your hand
into a better position
and you absolutely started maneuvering
before we finished the starting count.

No.
I didn’t say that.
The word “cheater” never escaped my lips,
did they?
I did not once claim
that you lied
or intentionally broke the rules, did I?
I’m not saying that.
I’m just saying that, well,
I think it’s kind of obvious what I’m saying,
I guess, if you know what I’m saying.

You suck at Thumb Wrestling.

No, it’s all right.
It’s fine.
I didn’t want those Alexander the Grapes anyway.
You keep them,
they’re so important to you.
They’re too sour for me.
Whatever.

When you tell me
I did a good job
and it’s not my first time
doing that kind of a thing
then what you’re telling me
is that all the other jobs
I have ever done
were unremarkable
– literally, else you’d have bothered
to remark upon them –
unless you are inexact in your remarking-
ability, which would make your judgment
in such affairs somewhat less valuable,
wouldn’t it?

Unless you’re saying that the work I did
this time
is so far ahead
of all my other accomplishments
perhaps because of my more frequent
daily incompetence
– in which case,
fuck you very much –
or possibly
you just never cared enough
to pay very much attention
at what I did before.
I guess, if that’s true, then:
ibid.

Probably it is not your intent
to sling arrows of attack
or hurl pellets of pain
with your barbed blasts of presumed politesse
but your pleasantries, well,
how can I put this kindly?

Shit on the stump of your retarded pleasantries:
the bleeding fucking stump.