jonberger

The clouds are grey
and ominous
and still
they are beautiful.

How is that?

Is it the shape
of the heavy objects above
floating towards their eventual destination
never telling when
they might unload
whatever they may hold?

Is it the nearby sun
contrasting such dark
with a brightness
that imbues some sense of hope

or
is there something
in the eye of the beholder
making one see glory
even in these cold
shrinking hours?

There aren’t answers.
There are simply clouds
grey clouds
and now rain
and that too
holds its own beauty.

Some times, on those sunny days
with the puffy clouds
in early spring
when the weather changes
and the right new partner
rests there in the special crook in your arm
and everything feels new and right
and good and just
and the universe seems so perfect
like nothing could go wrong
and you just wonder how could anything possibly ever mess this up?

And then for a fleeting second
you get in your own head
and you wonder
if you’ve jinxed it all
by identifying the miracle
and now, having called god’s attention to
the good fortune,
that right bastard knows just what he has to do
to pluck that Instant of heaven
from the jaws of your quivering stupid mouth?

But then you realize you’re being silly,
that the universe is not so cruel,
that no infinite power could be so petty
and that your joy,
however precious,
is too small a thing for any galactic force
to be terribly concerned with,
and you go back to walking dogs in the sand
or boiling lobsters
or being etched into silhouette cameos
or whatever moment of paradise
you were previously involved in?

Remember the petty universe.
You will have need of those memories again
and a reminder of what
a right bastard looks like.

I just missed tripping over my Stanley fan
which is convenient
since it’s just about time
to take it out for the season
since it’s April
and just about right
for those in the Northeast US
to find some use
in the movement of the air.
I am glad to be reminded
that the Stanley has been out all along
and constantly ready for my usage
all winter long.

In point of fact
I have used the fan
since last summer.
I have had reason
to keep the fan available
at the push of a button for my pleasure
since its last season of substantial service.
The fact that I failed to put it away
is less a failure of organization
and more a matter
of being prepared
at any minute
for every eventuality.

I believe the fact that I had the sweats in February
(and earlier in December)
is ample evidence
of why I need to keep the fan out
and also why I still own two boxed VCRs
and a series of New York Posts
from the nineties
that have yet to be perused.
Also some medium Bionic Finger t-shirts
that’ll be making a comeback
any day now.

There’s a method to the madness.
The Stanley fan proves it
even if I almost broke my navicular
again this morning.

That failure was not
particularly spectacular
but it certainly was complete.
Perhaps I no longer know
what a scalper looks like
or how one speaks
or how the bargain is made
or even what the terms are.

The show
that I knew nothing about
before the tix were all sold out
is going on right now
and all the second hand ticket sellers
were beyond my ken
so my old school approach
seemed elegant
and perfect
and completely out of date.

Now, ticketless,
cashfilled and unentertained,
I kneel outside
in unseasonal cold,
wondering how I failed
so completely
and unsure if I could repeat it
quite so perfectly next time.

Essie, if you’re out there
in the ether
somewhere where I can’t see
haunting my thoughts
just outside my conceptual perception,
be it in faulty memory
or through some sort of magic
or some physical fetish I took from our days
so long ago…

However it is
I still sense a part of you
beating about me.
Could you tell me please
how I wronged you
because I could tell how pissed you were
just as I was pissed at you
and I kind of vaguely recall
what was going on in my head
but even after all these years
I’m still not sure what you thought.

Did you think I was cheating?
Did you hate how suspicious I was?
Was it the cheap cologne
that was all I could afford?
I just don’t know, Essie,
any more than I know your address
or your current last name
or if you even think of me at all
or if I’m making any of this up.

I really have to take better notes.

I am sorry.
I am trying.
I am struggling.
I am changing
and I am not sure what I am changing into
and though I hope it is something better
I cannot say
that the process is an easy one.

I am trying to become normal with you
and I can tell
that I am so far failing.
I’ll get it right
on my eighth iteration
or my eightieth.
I’ll keep trying
to find a way
not to be a freak in your presence
as long as you let me try.

If you have the patience
then so do I.

And just like that
the light goes on.

I am sitting
alone
in my room
with the sad music
and the hoarded mess
with the roaches trailing dust
I’d never bothered to sweep
and my stomach rumbling
for days
as I consider how this state
may continue indefinitely
with occasional trips to the bathroom
as I watch everything inside spiraling down
into a sewer system
that seems like a fitting final reward
for the entire universe.

I am uncomfortable.
I am alone.
I am seeing no future
and the sun is setting
and I think of the British Coal Gas Study
and wonder what opportunities
might be available at this hour
when I notice a shine on the window
and I realize
my local lamppost has gone on
and suddenly
not everything seems so bad
and I wonder what tomorrow might bring.

The most curious vomit
just came out of me:
yellow, thin
devoid of much solid,
seemingly nothing but bile.
Is this, then,
all that I consist of?

Am I a balloon
a cyst
an overripe organ
bursting at imagined seams
with aught but acidic fluids
burning me inside
and then going out?

I hope there is more to me.
Perhaps an x-ray
at the emergency room
will prove informative
or a visit with a psychiatrist.

If you don’t know what I’m saying
you could always ask
but that’s gonna help
only thirty two percent of the time
as listening to others
is not one of my greatest strengths
even when others happen to be myself.

I guess you could just try listening more carefully
but maybe fourteen percent of my language
is completely made up
(not completely, actually.
It’s based on English, certainly,
but barely theorematorically)
so that’ll just juke the stats somewhat.

I guess the best way
to understand what I’m saying
is to be telepathically engaged with me
but I can’t imagine why anyone
would want that.

If you can,
would you mind being telepathically engaged with me now
so I could understand
why
anyone would ever want
to do that?

The last time I saw that film
I wasn’t paying much attention.
I was a little busy
on the couch with my hands
and her.
I’d hurried over
to see the flick
that she’d already started
and soon after I settled down
on her third-hand couch
I was on top of her
instead of the plot.

I got the jist:
There was dancing
and action and there was movement
from place to place
and a whole lot of jive talking.
I understood that people weren’t happy
where they were
but I was pretty satisfied
just messing around on somebody’s couch
pretty distracted from the matters at hand.

It didn’t last long.
The film ended
and we went our separate ways
soon after that night.
I guess I wasn’t much of a woman’s man.
Really, I think I was too easily satisfied
with where I was
while she was looking for something more,
something different.
I hope she found it.