jonberger

God, you’re oh so clever, aren’t you?
In the back of the class
away from the throng
so no one will ever notice what you do.
Aren’t you a tricky little dick?
Subtle in your every action.
None suspecting you
as you scheme every which way,
planning whatever it is you may do.

They’re on to you.
You’re not as smooth as you think.
You’re not smooth in the least.
The moves you think are elegant
are rough and infantile.
The only reason you’ve not been found out
is that nobody cares
about what you do.

You think you’re playing four dimensional chess
but really you’re just drawing penises on the wall of the house of love and everyone knows it’s you
because you’re the goddamned idiot
that has fingerprints in his signature.

Whatever you do is dumb
and you think you’re so damned clever.
It’s funny, really.
You’re not.
Don’t make that mistake.
Never make that mistake again.

Look, there’s no question
that at one point, we were all in love with your lady,
but for the most part,
we got over it.
We grew up.
We found other beauties
upon whom to heap our untoward affection.

It was a special time, certainly,
but those days have passed.
I, for one, have matured.
I no longer lust after
that particular kettle of fish.
Not that there’s anything wrong
with what you’ve got.
She’s still quite a handsome woman
but
in the intervening years
I have found that a woman who is less clinically insane is more to my liking.

A female less prone
to stabbing a man in the eye
is what I lean towards today.
I prefer the kind who will not fritter away my savings
on cross-country shell-games
or trading livestock for legumes.
You do you, obviously,
and let crazy be crazy.

I’m just saying
we all once wore those glasses of rose.
I changed my prescription last week
when she blocked me on the socials.
Now I’ve seen the light.
When do you think you’ll man up
and follow suit?

So, not to be contentious,
but I’m not entirely clear
on who you’ve thought you’d been talking to
all this time lately,
but more and more
I’m less and less secure
that it’s really been me.

I suspect that you’ve unwittingly
been communicating with a simulacrum
– which is a word I had to look up.
I mean, I’ve seen it in print a whole bunch
but the actual meaning
and pronunciation, that required research.

Anyway, the simulacrum that you talk to
would probably know that word
and so many others.
He’s smart.
He’s clever and moral
and apparently good at cards
and understood whatever references you were making last night to, what? The Burger Court?
How am I supposed to know about that?
My name?
Oh.

Look: I think you have imagined a me
that is only a little like the me
that is actually me, y’get me?
The person you’re talking to
is much more in your head
than he is in mine
and I’m not saying I wouldn’t like to be him
but I’m not.
I’m just not.

I’m not sure what else to tell you
but you’re expecting more
or different
than what makes sense
like, don’t ask for pierogim
from the chinese place
you know?

Oh. Well what is the plural of pierogi, then?
I’ll bet the simulacrum would know.

As they exchange spittle and shouts
we eat our macaroni
and keep our heads down,
acting like everything’s normal.
For all we know
it is.

Neither of us are familiar
with the goings on
of this couple
in this house.
We thought it would be good
to make new friends
and this couple seemed perfect
at first glance.

The carpet has a growing stain of gravy
from where she threw a ladle at him.
He deflected
to the carpet’s disgrace.
“We can go,”
I say quietly
for the third time.
“No!” They both say.
She continues. “Don’t let this guy
stop us all from having a wonderful evening.”

The evening is not wonderful.
The macaroni’s al dente
which doesn’t agree with me
a fact I won’t learn
until much later in the night.

They fight for what seems like hours
and for all we know,
days more.
We never speak to them again.

My words have been getting angrier lately
more strident
less polite.
My phrases are more emphatic and exclamatory
less doubtful,
though I know I’m as full of doubt as ever.

Something about my words
seems dangerous
and ugly.
My language is gaining control
and becoming more forceful.
I am losing my mind to my mouth
which is not a rare state these days
but is frightening
however frequently it may occur.

I want to speak calmly.
I want to speak softly
and carry no stick
but I speak with stones now
and I rock hard.
It’s somewhat unsettling
but I’ll get over it
and so will you.

Now.

Found:
Baby’s feet
Barely used

The guest room was nice
but after all the lights dimmed
she snuck in
and we snuck out to the porch
so she could smoke
and we could talk
and then she led me back to her childhood bedroom.

I’d gotten the tour hours before
but the interior
after hours
in the dark
was quite different
and afterwards
I went to the bathroom
and got very
very lost.

The layout meant nothing to me
and I was totally turned around.
In the middle of the night
I was afraid a light would wake up her parents
so no lamp could guide me to an honest room
no Beatrice would direct me to a feathered pillow
there was no Virgil to show me where the hell I should go.

Afraid to move
I don’t know how long I stood
paralyzed, waiting for headlights
to mow me down
before she came out
to retrieve me.
It felt an eternity.

I stayed beside her in bed
until right before dawn
when she returned me
to my guest room
which seemed much nicer
in the muted light of morning.

Breakfast was pleasant.
I relished the ham
and conversation with her parents,
who asked how I slept.
My mouth was full
so I muttered something or other
before she showed me the sights
of her town
and the train station back home.

Hey, you remember
back when – yeah.
That was a time, huh?

You know,
when people know each other
as long
as well as we have
there’s a shorthand
a secondary language that develops,
don’t you think?

A twin thing, maybe,
how they can finish each other’s
– yeah, sandwiches, I guess,
but not what I –
oh, OK. Funny.

Anyways,
present moment aside,
I think we speak well
for each other
with each other.
We finish each other’s
sandwiches, huh?

So
maybe
you thinking
what I’m thinking?

Or
we can talk about it
later
or not.

You gonna finish that?

The first night was excruciating.
I kept twisting and turning
trying not to breathe
defying every urge to touch
struggling to let you sleep
struggling to sleep, myself.
I got maybe eight winks
the whole night through.

The comforter was comfortable enough
but I was sweaty
and then avoiding you even more
because of that sweat.
I was so hot that night
and you were hot every night,
of course.
Anyway, it was difficult.

It got easier as time went on
at least for me.
It seemed like it was smooth sailing
for you right away, though.
I guess I was a great sleep mate
from the start, huh?

Snoring?
Farting?
Kicking?
What the hell are you talking about?

Henry, I appreciate your permission
in not reaching my personal goals
so that I can stay out drinking with you
for yet another night
but I think I’m gonna pass.
I’ve gotta go.
I’ve got things to do.
I’ve got a novel to write.
I’ve got fame to attain.
I have a future
to bend to my will.

No, I appreciate it, Henry.
I love that you want my company
and I love you,
in your simple-hearted simpletonic way.
It’s just that you represent a past
I hope to escape.
You’re a youthful era
of pride and indolence
that soon enough
I expect to see behind me
once I spend enough time on my future
on the plan
on the goals.

It’s not you, Hank.
It’s me.
So just leave me be
so I can work on the book
and then book it
out of your life.
Byeee!

All right.
One drink.
But then I really gotta work!