jonberger

They never tell you what you’re in for
or for how long
or when you’re gonna get out
or even where you are.
It’s all really a big mystery, right?

Not this time.
They were pretty up front that I was in for littering,
that it was going to be a lifetime sentence,
and that they weren’t fucking around anymore.

“If you want any time off,” Officer Junior said,
“we might be able to work something out.”
“Something other than a lifetime for littering?” I suggested,
“Yeah, I might be willing to consider fielding a deal.”
“Good,” said Junior. “Let’s talk.”
And talk we did.

Junior, the senior officer on a racketeering case on the Western Eastie Boys,
Laid it out for me:
Turn state’s evidence and I could be cleared in a couple of hours.
Problem: I only knew a couple Southern Eastie Boys
– not anyone from the West.
I wouldn’t be able to do Junior any good.
But he didn’t have to know that.
“So do we sign anything, or do I just get to work
to get you the evidence on the guys?”
“You can’t just tell us what you got?”
“I got the goods in a stash back at my crib at Succotash Lane.”
“We’ll pick it up for you,” Junior said.
“You have some cops pick it up, you’ll be dead in ten minutes.
I’ll pick it up and bring it back here.”
“It’s the only way?” asked Junior.
I smiled my sleaziest. “Trust me.”

So I’m out again, ready to litter some more,
but knowing that if I step out of line anywhere, anyhow,
Junior’ll just pick me up again.
I know that every two-bit copper’s got their eyes out for me
so if anything goes wrong, I’ll be screwed tighter
than a bulb too dim to get lit.

I may be mixing my metaphors here,
but you get the drift.
I can’t get in trouble again.
You never can tell
the trouble I’m in
or how I can get out of it.

Before he stole the paper,
he was warned to keep his nose clean.
His horoscope read “Heed the advice of others; it will serve you well.”
His girlfriend Julie Rodriguez looked at him lovingly and said, “Let’s make a baby.”

Instead, James A. said to himself,
“Time to do something incredibly stupid,”
and he got away from everyone as fast as he could.

It took him no time to find himself in front of the Royal Harem Building.
Supposedly impregnable, he sized it up and said, “I could get in in about fifteen minutes.”
He didn’t have anyone to impress by saying it, but even to the air,
it sounded like bullshit boasting. He felt he had something to prove.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” James muttered to no one but himself,
as he started to scale the side of the building.
This wasn’t going to go anywhere good.

It got him inside the building, though it took him about fifty five minutes, not fifteen.
Security was tighter than he imagined,
His skills were pretty substantial, too.
Once inside, James A. scoped out what was available.
He spotted the primary Harem Room,
where the women (and occasional man) awaited selection
by the King.
He suspected that was the most dangerous room in the place
but maybe not the most interesting.

He wondered what else there might be to see.
A less exotic door struck him as enticing, so he cracked its code
and entered.
It was someone’s personal room.
From the looks, it was a woman’s (not much of a surprise)
who was high up in the social order.

“What is the meaning of this?” shouted a commanding voice,
spinning James one hundred and eighty at once.
What he saw was the most beautiful woman
he had ever laid eyes upon
a glorious brunette,
radiant with anger
at being shocked in her home.

Shocked, too, was James.

“What are you doing here?” The brunette reiterated.
“Why are you in my room?”
“Forgive me, madam, I just wanted to make your acquaintance.”
The lady, unfamiliar with his sly talk, was soon taken in.

When James was finally discovered in the gorgeous lady’s room,
he was prepared to die a happy man.
Such was not going to occur,
but what he had seen
would not be repeated,
as his eyes were plucked
and provided to fish for food.

The Last Vision of James Amacadillo
was to be of the latest bride of the King,
who received a quick and quiet annulment,
and an offer of resettlement to any other kingdom in reach.

She governs me. She tells me what to do.
She governs me; and I love it, too.
She governs me; it’s just the way to be.
I’m just amazed how she governs me.

She tells me just what to do and say.
I just smile when it goes her way.
It feels good the way she wields control.
I’m so glad I’m her adoring doll.

She holds strength like a cat in her lap;
she allows me to remain her maple sap.

She governs me. She manages my bills.
Now I have no worries and no ills.
She governs me; I can put up my feet,
resting assured that my life’s complete.

My girl in charge, with the control she wields,
I’m so safe that my protection yields
a guarantee that if my security
of how wonderful it is that she governs me.

She holds power like lips on a chap;
and I get to stay her only maple sap.

If we want to survive the revolution that’s coming
the only viable solutions are to either enslave
or destroy the children.

They keep envisioning progressive ideals
when we know they’ll grow out of them.
Unfortunately, we cannot wait for the youth to outgrow their idealism,
so we must contain them
until they have past their painful periods.
Let them be controlled until they know better.
Let them be ours
or no one’s.

Frankly, with AI coming around
I prefer the destructive route.
We don’t need them anymore.
Let the children go.
They’ve outlived their usefulness.

So long, kiddies.
It’s been good to know ya!

Choices, choices, all the time.
Once, two roads lay before me,
and each one, a father and a son,
each offering a path home.
The father said the road on the left would be the best way back.
The son, Miles III, knew better than his pater,
and swore the right road was a better route.

I looked at their paths and their faces,
each so sure,
so full of frustration at the other’s intransigence.
Only one way home could be the best,
but we might never know what it would be.

Finally, I offered a compromise,
and suggested the middle path,
going the third way down the center road
nd that has made all the difference.

Love died softly in the night
when he thought selfishly
instead of for others.

Rather than consider how they might get home,
he considered the easiest route for himself
and offered no one a ride.

In this way,
his kindness was not appreciated
(for there was none)
and the late night conversation was not experienced
that ended with a short drink at her neighborhood bar
followed by a long kiss outside the neighborhood bar
concluding with a longer make-out back in the car.

The night would have ended there,
but not without plans to meet up again
the next day
and many other times to come,
all predicated on the ride home
which was not offered,
and thus not taken.

My girlfriend from Canada really exists, no matter what she says.
She’s coming down from Montreal any week, and looks really hot in a fez.
She argues, “No, I’m not! You made me up! I’m only words on a screen!”
But she is much more than that real late at night, if you know what I mean.
She keeps on rocking me. She keeps on rolling me. She keeps on loving me
right up there in Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!
Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!

“Come on!” Esmerelda screams at me, when she gets out of class
(She’s a twenty-five year old grad student, with a fine, fine… mind).
“You’re not even painting a detailed description of a girl.
How is this vague figure you’ve imagined expected to rock your world?”
She does more than rock me. She really loves me. She is my whole life
when I visit up in Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!
Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!

“Please believe me,” she cries out, “If I were real, I might like you.
You’re a nice guy, you’re funny. You’re smart and you’re kind.
But you’re something far less than true. You keep making these stories up;
trying to impress us all. Someone’s gotta keep you honest, else you’re gonna take a fall.”

Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!
Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!

“All right, you got me,” Esme says, “I was playing hard to get.
“I can’t wait to come down in my leatherette outfit.”
“Now hold on, baby!” I reply, “This is getting kind of real.”
“I am not at this moment all that sure just how I feel.
Maybe you should hold off on your next trip down
from the wilds of…
Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!
Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!

If you think about it, Her Majesty really had a lot to say.
Even if it wasn’t really all with words,
Her Majesty was really quite telling
and continues to be,
even after all this time.

That is all.

They say you shouldn’t eat cicadas raw,
which, to me, defeats the purpose.
You’ve waited 17 years to eat the thing,
and now you want me to wait to cook it?
Nah, I just want to open my mouth and chomp!

But, apparently, the connoisseur wants you to
properly select the correct cicada
– one that isn’t diseased,
is the right age,
has the right markings –
and then season it up
all the right ways
and cook it
along with some of its friends.

Seems like way to much work for me,
but then I like my Twinkies
out of a can.

Perhaps you’ll enjoy your cicadas
the way you’re told to eat ’em.
Me, I’m going for ’em wild.

We write, saying nothing,
day after year
on through the decades
maintaining strands made sinew,
holding on to what was good
made better.