jonberger

It’s not a very good poem
but it tries hard.
It starts early
and stays late
and works diligently
with what it has.

It’s a poem with spunk
is what it is.
It’s got heart
and shouldn’t we all
have a little bit more of that?

Really,
the poem speaks
to the American ideal
better than so many others.
It comes from humble beginnings
but eventually achieves something far greater.
It’s ROI is truly tremendous.

Keep the poem in mind
next assessment season
when you’re looking for something reliable
that will never leave you stranded.

For your birthday, you got
a day at the races
a night at the opera
an hour at the zoo
and an evening of erotic intimations.

I gave you a fireworks display
an ice cream social
six lords a leaping
seven ladies dancing
eight jugglers hopping
with an assortment of other unusual stimuli
available for your consumption.

I offered you so much,
provided as many opportunities as I could
to show how I cared.
I wanted you to feel loved
to know just how I felt
but
because of your narcolepsy and amnesia
I think you’ll just have to take my word
for all of it.

Tell it to the midwives.
Take it up with your bank teller.
Make mention of it to your local rag and bone man.
Bring it on with an elevator operator.
Have a nice chat with a general practitioner
a general store manager
a general Mr. Fixit.

Alert the blacksmith
the cobbler
the cooper and the seamstress.
Notify the milkman
the fish monger
the donut maker
the mom and pop shop.

Question the typesetter
the film editor
the projectionist
travel agent.
Ask them if they saw this coming
if they saw anything coming
if they know what you’re talking about
then go to your telegraph operator
and give her a hug.

They didn’t catch the shooter
despite all those barricades
and the helicopters
and a hell of a lot of cops
so now
the reporters have left the neighborhood
and the politicians are gone
and police are no longer any kind of presence
and we are left
with our thoughts
and a memory of blood
and, perhaps, still, the shooter.

We walk our streets quickly,
rushing from the train
to the home at night
and back again in the morning.
We speak less to each other
with diminished eye contact.
Which of us can be sure
we are not speaking to the escaped shooter?

Me,
I lay at night,
head on pillow,
listening to sounds of the street,
wondering if every slapped step on the pavement
will be followed by a gun’s crack.
I am intent on hearing,
hoping, perhaps,
to dodge any stray bullets
aiming to strike me in bed.

I don’t want to live like this.
I want to sleep at night.

With the sun,
I shall rise
and struggle through the day
and hope that I feel more comfortable
in my community
in my city.

I don’t know how that can ever happen
until the shooter
is caught,
but I don’t see how that will ever happen
unless the shooter strikes again.

I’ll thank you
to keep your profanity
to the bare minimum.
Loathe as I am
to present ultimata,
I’m afraid,
if I hear you repeating that sort of speech on a future occasion, I may be forced
to act in untoward ways.

I may vivisect
or defenestrate
or decapitate any
that I hear speaking
in such an inappropriate manner.

Violence may not be my only response, of course.
If placed in an undesired position,
I might well return the favor,
by defiling family members,
whether older or younger.
Yes, neither progenitors nor progeny
would be safe from my carnal whims
should you choose to affront me,
in terms of language.

I could let loose an assortment
of bodily functions
that you’d prefer not to consider.
Be it gaseous, solid, or liquid,
whatever excretion may occur,
may indeed occur upon you,
if you don’t watch your mouth.

This warning,
though severe,
is genuine.
I’d appreciate it
if you keep a civil tongue
lest we both suffer the inconvenience
of the consequences.

My crush on you
is reaching that awkward age:
spindly, crackling,
unsure of itself
and its place in the room.
It is shy
and tries to hide in the background
whenever the lights come on.

My crush has grown past those nascent days
of flawless beauty
where it was faultless,
glowing perfection,
much like you, my dear.
My crush started out so vibrant
but has since become gangly.

I don’t know
how long this shall last.
If the crush makes it to full maturity,
it attains the full-blown obsession
of early promise.
Otherwise, it could die,
due to too many disappointments
contradicting my dedication
to you, to the crush,
and to romance
in general.

Or
my crush could die the other way,
burning out,
a phoenix,
only to transmogrify into something more majestic
and more mature
and more fulfilled?
Couldn’t my crush
transform into required love?

But right now it’s creepy.
OK.
Got it.

The hearing aid has collected dust
this last quarter score,
as I have been too young and virile
to use such a thing
despite my doctor’s insistent prescription.

It just hasn’t seemed necessary
to hear the mutterings
under the breath
of America’s snarky youth
or all the belches and farts
on today’s flatscreen digital HDTV.

I’ve lived just fine
with close captioning
and asking friends to repeat themselves
– but never more than twice.
If I don’t get it by then,
I just nod my head knowingly –
rather than wearing the internal device
and figuring out how to position it,
but it seems
like the aid’s time
may be coming.

I have been going to your shows
and I love your voice
and your playing
and your rhythm and style
but I’m afraid it may be necessary
to dust off the aural aid
because after all these gigs
I’d ready to admit
I’ve got no idea
what you’re saying.

Sam opted to quietly record
with additional instruments,
testing, teasing,
torturing sounds out of new tools
until he knew exactly what he wanted.
When he released the EP,
eight people bought it.

Amy introduced her band
one song at a time
into her solo acoustic show.
By the end of the night,
she had a trio
plus horns.

Jon had a band,
but didn’t bother to tell anyone.
He just scheduled a show
and bam!
Expected the fans to be on board.
There were no fans.

And then there’s a different approach:
booking two shows
at two clubs
with a two-piece
that had had two rehearsals.
Certainly,
that was a another way to go
and, as you guessed,
it was too good.

Yesterday’s rain leaves the grass still moist
but we brought a blanket
and, as there’s little else to do
on this unstormy day,
we lay on the lawn,
debating clouds.

I lift him with my legs,
and he flies,
balancing, giggling.
We both nap for a bit
then go looking for more adventures.
“You sure you don’t need a bathroom?”
I ask.
He says he’s fine.

I am unfamiliar with the park
so we wander
and soon find ourselves
bewildered.
He reaches for my hand
and doesn’t break contact
when I show him signs
that prove we’re not really lost.

He begins to tire
So we wend our way
back to his mother’s place.
As we walk
my stomach acts like it sometimes does:
gurgling, pulsing,
expressing angry discontent.
My intestines have been happier with me.

“You need a bathroom now?”
He shakes his head.
“You know where one is?”
He’s got nothing for me.
I pick up the pace
to his house
but I doubt we’re gonna make it
and there’s no toilet in sight.
The day’s long;
he’s getting antsy
and so am I.

It reaches the point
where something has to be done
and I search for some secluded spot.
“You stay here,” I point,
and go to the other side of a 200-year tree
to take care of business.
Dropping pants,
I hope the boy isn’t kidnapped
in the three minutes he’s left unsupervised.
My bowels void.
When I circle the tree
the boy’s still there.

“Are we there yet?”
He asks,
as we head home.
“Sure,” I say, “soon.”
There is a teachable moment
somewhere
in all of this,
I hope.

Footsteps sound upstairs
where lately only ghosts have walked.
Are these the noises of closing down
of a dead woman’s apartment
or the excavation,
the process of opening it up
for a new generation to thrive
in that once well-lived space?

The noise alone
informs me too little,
but the bright sunlight
burning through grey
gives me hope
that the heavy steps above
are the voice of spring becoming,
not winter ending.

Something good is happening,
something fresh.
The old will be swept away
and in its place
something new shall soon be borne.