In daylight hours
we sat at home
glued to the TV
when we could have been out
exploring the world we barely knew.
We might have met people
discovered lost treasures of prior generations
practiced our storytelling
but we treasured the stories people told us
instead.
We had so much opportunity
squandered then
that we can never get back.
Luckily
there are a lot more shows now
to take our mind off the loss.
She did this song
where the chorus goes
Pushing dirty water on the bleachers of love
and afterwards I asked
Beaches of love?
and she said
Bleachers of love
and I said
I don’t know what that means
and she said
it came from a private joke.
It doesn’t really mean anything.
So I said,
Isn’t that a problem
that you’re singing for other people
out in the world
in the hopes that they understand it
and appreciate it
and maybe want to buy it
and give you a million dollars for it?
and she said, A million dollars?
What are you: forty eight?
and I said Maybe?!
She looked at me
and said
You don’t have to take it so serious.
It’s just a song.
It doesn’t have to mean anything.
and I replied
Then what’s the point of writing it?
Why don’t you just stay home
and play it to nobody
and hope your cats give you the million?
and she said,
I don’t have a cat.
and I said, Whatever!
You’re pretty cute when you’re frustrated,
she said
and I muttered while mind wandered.
She’s just trying to distract me from my central thesis,
I thought,
but I shall not be so easily swayed.
It is important to use a common language in the communication arts, I thought,
Even if she thinks I’m cute.
Wait. She thinks I’m cute?
Really?
I said, but she hadn’t really said that at all.
She’d gone long ago
and I guess the real words
had gotten swept away
on the tides
of the beaches
of my reverie.
Looking back
at the pictures of your mom
while we were growing up
I guess I’m struck
by how frigging hot she was.
Hair, legs,
bosom, smile…
your mom had the whole package
way back when.
I never knew.
How was it
that I failed to realize
this crucial information at the time?
What was wrong with me
that her beauty
could only be recognized by history
and not my very own eyes?
Sure, we were running around prepubescently,
but I should have seen
the sexiness in your home.
How could I have been so blind?
I’m sorry for your loss.
Please pass on my regards
to your big sister
and pass on to me
your big sister’s number.
That ring,
the one on your fourth finger,
it is very beautiful.
That stone is very tasteful.
Quite subtle.
What kind of jewel is it?
Oh!
Oh, my.
Do you always wear it?
How long
have you had it?
So
for the life of me
I cannot tell at all
what sort of a ring that is.
The one on the ring finger.
The wedding ring finger.
How did you get it?
Why did he give it to you?
Tell me, please
a little more
about that ring.
Ha!
Stupid bitch just left
her peanut butter and blackberry jam donut
right there
on the counter
completely unattended
while she gets soy milk
for her double macchiato blend
or whatever the fuck she’s got there.
Silly bitch,
to leave her possession where anyone could take it.
Stupid bitch
to think no one will be clever enough,
swift enough, dastardly enough
to do the deed
and dash off with the damnably delicious delight.
Dumb bitch
to believe she was safe
from me.
See how the prize glistens
near the window
just waiting,
aching to be taken by a true man
a man worthy
of that peanut butter and blackberry jam donut.
Oh, I shall dine well tonight
on my ill-gotten gains
and that foolish wench will be none the wiser
as to where it went.
How embarrassed,
how laid low,
how – and she’s back.
Stupid bitch.
Think carefully
on what you do next.
Look out your window
and look at your city.
See the winds,
the rain.
Imagine pushing your way past gusts,
struggling through whatever tasks
you believe are so important.
It’s Sunday, for God’s sake!
There is something sacred
in knowing what your destiny is
and accepting it,
treasuring that calling,
succumbing wholeheartedly.
Forsake the world.
Stay here today
with me
and card games and cocoa.
The city doesn’t deserve you
and neither do I
but you
deserve a break.
Nowhere band, please listen:
you’re going nowhere
doing nothing
making headway
in none of the major markets,
none of the minor markets…
you know where your band
has seen some small amount of penetration?
Nowhere. That’s where.
You guys,
you’re a real nowhere band, man.
Recording in those nowhere clubs,
with nowhere bass and vocal dubs.
All seeking gigs, like hunting grubs,
it’s saddening.
Get some practice, nowhere dudes.
Get better, and, well, not to be rude,
there’s the slightest chance
you’ll be of interest to me.
Come on, nobodies,
if you keep trying,
I can say without lying,
you’ll get better, maybe,
but no one
will ever want to see your band
because you have not any point of view
no style or theme
or reason to
bring people to your shows
or think you’re any good.
Nobody in the world
cares about your band.
Nobody
in the world
cares
about your band.
Nobody,
nowhere band.
Luther versus Doom:
Who would win?
Each one represents
the greatest villain
of the greatest heroes
of the greatest comic company
of the greatest decade
of the greatest generation
– dependent on age.
Doctor Doom and Lex Luther;
each the most twisted genius
of their own independent pantheon.
Each had a world dedicated to them
where the wills of their arch enemies
were thwarted
only for they themselves, too,
to be thwarted in kind.
So much in common,
but what would happen
if they went bald head to metal head,
hairless face to scarred one?
Geniuses both
leaders both
ruthless devourers of their lessers,
both both both.
Both could have been the master of everything around them
but for their egos.
They are both great
but both constantly defeated.
Luthor’s smart, but so is Doom,
who also has magic.
Doom is a King, but only
in some Third World Eastern Bloc empire.
Luthor’s got cash, yo. That’s what counts.
But Doom’s got a cape
and a mask
and he’s metal as hell.
It’s tough.
I’d give it to Doom, myself,
but wouldn’t say it
in front of the other guy.
Either way,
Battle Royale for sure.
I’d buy a ticket
– and hope I didn’t die
in the raging battle.
Once before I tried to write this one
but I was not mature enough
informed enough
wise enough
to get the idea across.
So, half-cocked,
I put it into the world
prematurely
and the reception it received
was anticlimactic
at best.
But the inspiration’s hit again
so I strike again
with heated iron
and renewed vigor:
Everybody wants to cha cha
but I don’t really want to cha cha
so if you want to go and cha cha
you’ll have to find someone to cha cha
with.
We
we may
we may have to speak again
on this topic
at some future point.
I remember you
only hazily.
An accent,
maternal demeanor…
…
that’s it.
Sure, it was long ago,
but you were kind to me.
Why can’t I etch
a stronger impression of you?
You were there for the farewell party
at the French bank
where they served food I couldn’t eat.
You were the only one that asked about that.
You were such a good soul.
What did you look like?
I can remember the tight skirt
of the busty blonde
from my college internship
along with her disinterested face
after my dazed sexist jokes.
I still see the frustrated look on Miranda
in eighth grade
as monkey-faced Marc
made insidious innuendo that made her blush
(me, too).
I can picture a picture
I took of Jill
that was never developed.
The framing,
the uncomfortable smile,
all I can recall.
But you have mostly faded.
Is it because I wasn’t attracted to you?
Am I that shallow?
You seem worth more.
You deserve better from me
if I’m thinking of the right person.
jonberger 