jonberger

The puppy’s very much into licking my glasses
which is not a particular fetish of mine.
I don’t much mind wet paw prints on my slacks
or the subsequent claylike stains that follow.
(they usually come out
after a wash or two).
I’m not too bad
with the wet nose in the night
or the occasional smell of dead rat
or what I hope is dead rat.

But the shellacking of saliva
upon my spectacles
is not something I at all enjoy.
The immediate vision problems do not go away
and even the ancillary feeling of spittle on cheeks
does me no good.
I detest it when Mickey does this
and, when I sense the urge,
I hold him back.
petting and holding the collar,
generally distracting the beast.
I try to keep him away
from the windows to my soul.

I don’t like it
the way he shows his affection
but I love the fact that he does.
I can’t get what I want,
but I find, sometimes Mick’ll
gimme some other kind of satisfaction.

A draft of an older piece
painted a perfect portrait
of my feelings for you
but, in fact, predated you
by quite a few months.

I’d like to think
that some sort of artistic augury
had me listening to the universe
through my own words
and foretelling your existence in my world
but it’s much more likely
that I objectify all the ladies I like
and the way I write about each of you
is woefully the same.

I’d hate that to be the case
but it is almost certainly the case
that I cannot differentiate much
between the feelings
I have for you and her
or how I describe you
except by checking at the dates
or maybe the hairstyles.

Is it my lack as a writer
or my lack as man
that should most be moderated?
Or is the fact
that I failed to finish
that perfectly good poem about her
all those months ago?

Look at yourself
with your sad eyes
in your low lands:
You know full well
that it could be worse.
Much worse.
Orders of magnitude worse.
You could be dead in a ditch.
You could be dead in a ditch
after being raped by a snake.
You could be dead in a ditch
before being raped by a snake
(which maybe is no worse
but probably less dignified
for the snake).

You could’ve been fired
from a job that you hated
after begging to keep the job
after making important life decisions
to keep the job
that you knew you hated
because you deemed it
in some way you couldn’t subsequently recall
important to your sense of normalcy
which is only a word
that the pre-Depression establishment created
to try to keep the proletariat down
– but I may have gotten off track.
It could’ve been worse.

You could’ve been a nineteenth century proletariat.
You could have been a twenty third century proletariat
one of the billions of half-serfs
that we’ll all become in a world
with eight haves
and eighteen billion have-nots,
all wrestling for a single crust
to go with plutocrat-offered bratwurst.
It could be wurst.

It’s bad. I ain’t denying
but there’s always a way that the fates can defy and
make an occasion just worse and worse
it’s a fact that imagination is a curse
and perverse that this verse won’t reverse
your position that everything bad
can’t be worse.
But it could be worse.
Whatever it is…
Oh, shit
that’s bad.

Thank you.
I don’t say it enough.
I probably don’t say it ever
except sarcastically
or when you pay for my lap dance.

You’ve been a good friend
and I have not been vocal about that.
I don’t think I’ve been cognizant of the fact
considering what a bad friend I am
considering what a bad person I am
considering what a bad sample of fauna
I have proven to be.

It’s rare moments that I reach this level
of self-awareness
and rarer still that I share it
and pretty much never that I pull out my checkbook when it happens so thank god I’m not that far gone
but I wanted to thank you for being there for me
because it can’t be easy
and I wish I had ever done anything
at all
to deserve it.

The graffiti on the wall
by the toilet where I sit
studying the important matters of the day
reads I Heart Tracy
only Tracy’s name is crossed out
and directly underneath it
is the name Angela.
At least I think it is,
because it’s crossed out
and beneath it
is Louisa, which is not a name
I’ve found on an actual living person,
but it’s good to know
that it’s still alive and well
and living in graffiti
– or was,
before a line ran through it
to be replaced by Phoebe
who was subsequently improved upon
in the opinion of the writer
by Christina.

Next: Lily.
Then: Joanna
followed by Joanne
followed by Christina
– who may well have been the same
as the earlier Christina,
but then again,
Christina’s a pretty popular name,
and it really seems like this bathroom scrawler gets around.

By this point in the list,
I’m bending pretty low
and it’s really hard to get my business done
but I’m kind of interested.
Has the writer found true love?
Is the Christina the end
of the crossed-out lines?

I may never know for sure,
unless I return to the scene of this grime
and search again
and find fresh ink
to prove that his last listed love
didn’t last
and even then
I won’t ever truly be sure
if I’ll really be done giving a shit.

History ripples.
A story’s ending one day
changes dramatically
with new information unloaded
and new reactions
and new players interacting with those other things.
It’s always changing
so the good guys who won yesterday
may prove to be villains tomorrow
and transform again
soon afterwards.

When I broke into the brownstone
it was with the best of intentions.
I only wanted to save the parrot
which I thought might suffer from smoke inhalation
which I now realize I may have inadvertently caused.
Have absolutely empirically proven
and legally established
beyond a shadow of a doubt caused.

I didn’t mean to scare you
or break and enter
or shatter any existing restraining orders
but please believe me
in the story as it was unfolding
the narrative was really very different
and who knows
how it might seem tomorrow
if you choose to come back again
during the next Visiting Hours.

Hey, little boy, don’t look so down.
I mean, I get it; Jeannette’s not around
and you’re wondering if she’s gonna make you smile or maybe frown. You’re scared that that girl’s had nothing to say?
Well, I was talking to her just the other day.
It looks bad, Todd.
It’s not gonna go your way.

It, like, looks bad, Todd.
She’s not really into you.
It looks bad, Todd.
I’m pretty sure you’re through.
It looks bad, Todd.
There’s no way she’s staying true.
It looks bad, Todd.
It looks bad, Todd.

Yeah, last I heard, Jeanette’s been dating twins
so it’s probably time that you try a new thing
like going to church or learning to sing.
If you still have hopes
with that girl, you’re a dope.
It looks bad, Todd.
Is she into you? Nope.

It looks bad, Todd.
She’s totally moved on.
It’s looks bad, Todd.
It’s your denouement.
It may be harsh, but life goes on
even if it sounds bad, Todd.
It sounds bad, Todd.

Come on, there, dude, it’s been months since you split.
Just accept it’s shit and move on with it.
Dig yourself out of this ridiculous pit.
Surely, you appear to be a shameful disgrace.
Turn off that sad look upon your face.
You look bad, Todd.
Get out of this place.

You look bad, Todd.
Forget about her.
This looks bad, Todd.
Find someone to prefer
this wasting away must no longer occur.
It’s just bad, Todd.
It looks bad, Todd.

Dude, really.
You could have warned me.
You could’ve given me a sign
of what was to come.
You know what I’m into.
You know what I like.
You might have shed
just the tiniest bit of light
as to what I was about to experience.

I get it.
I didn’t ask for any foreknowledge
but really
how was I to know?
Should I have said,
“Please inform me if,
at any time in the next few months,
there is a shocking surprise
that might prove devastating
life-changing
in any media I consume
that you already have experienced”?

Should I have told you
to tell me what Rosebud was
before getting high off the Cane?
How could I have managed that?

I can’t help but feel a mite betrayed
that I was so under-informed
about how this matter would play out.
I mean, considering Shrew and Ado,
you might have told me
Romeo and Juliet was a tragedy.

The novels I didn’t write
are pristine and perfect in my head
and better than the dusty musty manuscripts
typed, decaying on your top shelf.
There is probably a line
in one of my unwritten opa
(opuses? Opera?
Opi? OPI!)
about the bugs eating away
at your unwanted text
while mine are forever clean.

There is something elegant
regal even
about the unread word
the epic unheard
the poem unknown
the perfect game unthrown.
That is my throne
and I have already ascended
without taking a single step.

Enjoy the writing
and the editing
and the printing
and the mailing
and the waiting
and the waiting
and the waiting
and the
and the receiving.

Enjoy returning the manuscript
to the top shelf
or the bottom.
Whatever.
I’ve got a preferable plan.
I’ve got my novels vaulted away
to their final destination
with an audience
who will most appreciate them.

The band we were gonna form,
the one we talked about
for a minute and a half
maybe a decade ago
in a bar over ciders
after we saw That Darned Cat
in their back room huddled over your laptop?
It’s been percolating.

I’ve got some song ideas.
I’ve got some graphics.
I was thinking
maybe we’d be a fourth wave ska
with digi-strings mashed in?
Only with post-ennui vocals?
I can handle those.

I know neither of us have mentioned the project
since then
or much of anything else.
I know a lot of cider’s been under the bridge
and a couple of chips have come and gone between us
but in the last few weeks
I’ve been considering nothing else.

I really think this could be our time.
By this point next week,
maybe everyone’ll be streaming
That Darned Ska!t.
I hope you’re still interested.
Hit me up.