jonberger

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.

They correct me, softly, when I misspeak,
about class issues,
like a child who must be taught about these weighty matters.

It is frustrating to wear waders in these conversations,
at this age,
living in derelict neighborhoods
for thirty years,
yet still understanding little about money
and opportunity and the way people live.

I always have an out.
I can always borrow money.

Still, people are kind
as they explain situations to me.
Perhaps I can be helpful to the cause.
Perhaps I can be made
to be of good use.

That is something to consider going forward, I suppose.

"I so want to help you, but I don’t know how."
"The effort costs more than you may choose to pay."
(Knowing what she said was hard to disavow:)
"Goddamn! Those are pretty painful words to say."
"I wouldn’t say it if it didn’t feel true.
"I’m so sorry that my curt words have hurt you.
"I’d help you, if only I could find a way."
He smiled at that; knowing what she meant to say.

To get to sleep at night,
make yourself sleep at night.
Work at it. Earn it.

Tire yourself out.
Walk the extra megamile.
Exercise further/faster/more furiously.
Read yourself sick.
Excite yourself near exhaustion.
Stimulate yourself beyond belief.
Make it so your day cannot stand a second more
so that you could do nothing but snore for eight hours plus forty four.

This is the way to get yourself a comfy bed:
insist that you have nothing else instead.
Exhaust every other thing from your life.

Joy sometimes seems beyond me
like I’m just riding along,
a viewer rather than a participant.

I was distantly aware of the game
I was at today.
It was a chilly experience.
I wonder how I could have felt further engaged.
I wasn’t invited to play in the Minor Leagues,
so being on the field wasn’t an option.

I could have studied up on the stats,
but really?
The runs were from loaded bases due to balls, balls, balls.
This was not thrilling baseball.

It’s not baseball that’s the issue, though.
I need to be excited.
Should I have been excited at the game?
If not there, where should I be excited?