jonberger

Fluttering out of my bag,
simply bursting with bright energy,
was a tiny sprite
of a mouse,
which sprung from the flap
into the murk of my floor
never to be seen,
quoth the renter,
evermore.

How wondrous
the signs of life,
ever reaching,
ever changing!
How amazing
to see that,
despite the snap-traps of ancient commercials
and the glue boxes of the modern market
and deadly poisons of the Exterminator/Industrial Complex,
this gloriously minute cheese-eater
can find purchase in my home
and live
and thrive
for as long as she
and her family
may wish to.

Blessing upon you,
little mouse.
Nature loves you.
May you enjoy my home
until the best man wins.

I wrote this before we broke up
but it really seems to apply
just as much today,
so I thought I’d share it
with you, if I may:

There will come a day
when words will lose meaning,
when we have agreed on all the subjects we could
and disagreed on all the subjects we would
and there is simply nothing else to say.

We will find some way
to reach the certain point
where we barely notice each other,
so familiar our respective rhythms shall become.
You will twist to my turn.
Your bend yields my sway.

And this comfort may
breed a certain discord from you
but I will treasure that time
where we have attained such harmony
that we are almost as one.
It is a state for which I pray.

And it seems I drank from Cassandra’s cup
understanding a future
I could do nothing to change.
As I saw exactly how time would stray
except just the day we’d be betrayed.

The dogs dance on the snowy scape,
unsettling the white.
Flakes fly about them
as they bare teeth
and flare tails at one other.
Racing, chasing,
each outpacing the other in turn
only to return to the fold,
they gnash and snarl
and snap and glower
until they are called in

where they submit calmly
to being dried
and plied with snacks
and cried over
for being adorable
and yet such bad girls
for getting so wet
on such a cold day.

It is a cold day
but these creatures
and their play
make it somewhat warmer.

When the days are warm,
inviting, promising some secret intimacy
like sun-kissed hair
or freshly tanned skin…

When the world seems to cry
with premature hope
offering future opportunities you had forgotten about entirely…

When life is suddenly teeming
and flora and fauna burst from surprised seams
bleeding out and infecting the planet
with their glory…

When transition is pregnant
in every heavy breath you breathe…
then that is some fucking great Indian Summer, then,
isn’t it?

Roses are red
I don’t love you.
But don’t be blue;
the reverse is true, too.

When in June
we nudely spoon
on one side
we always moon.

Mainly, planes
require emptied containers
but maintained: most trains
sustain liquid remains.

The following poem is brought to you by Jon Berger,
the maker of such seminal works as “Seminal Work,”
“The Healing Power of Bacon,”
“My Sister’s a Slut”
and “Booby Prize,”
which was all about touching boobies.

This prolific creator has branched out into recordings
producing important albums like
AntiFunk masterpiece Kinesis
and experimental atmo-rock juggernaut Grey Revelations
which went paperclip on bandcamp
selling at least three downloads.

He hosts shows.
He graces open mics with his presence.
He plays games on his phone
at the back of small clubs during your shows.
He heckles like nobody’s business
– which it, in fact,
is.

Jon Berger
AKA the editor of AntiMatters, Revolutionary Whimperings, and Urban Folk AKA the leader of JUANBURGUESA, King of the Scene
AKA DJ JB, the AP of AF
AKA Jonathan Berger
is the man behind this poem.

Jon Berger.
Ask for him by name.

Now that the shaking has slowed
and the sobbing has stopped
I am relieved to see she has gained a semblance of control. This has been an emotional evening for us
as she shares secrets,
thoughts she might not have even known
until she weakly whispered them.

I hug her.
I hold her.
I tell her everything will be all right
and stroke her hair
and tell her I will never do anything to hurt her
like the other boys
the ones she talks about
that elicits such cries in the night.

It is true;
I will be good
and kind.
I will be there for her
and be strong for her
and will not take advantage
of this sweet, damaged creature
until after curfew.

You’ll be over this one day.
You’ll look back on these things you’re saying now
and feel, at best,
mildly embarrassed
and, at worst,
completely horrified
at the songs you’re singing,
the positions you support,
the face you currently wear.

You will think of today
and wonder what was going through your head
and wish your friends had suggested
you should know better
when, in fact,
everyone had told you
almost every day
that you should know better.
I am telling you that right now
but you won’t remember.

You’ll be ashamed
a little
about the person you are now
but pretty quickly you’ll shrug it off
and move on with your life
because it wasn’t so bad, right?
You got through those awkward years
and anything that doesn’t kill you
makes you stronger, doesn’t it?

That’s what you’ll say one day
if you can.

We rang the bell at my school
to commemorate collegiate success,
so after I tugged the cables
and heard the sweet ringing sound
representing eight semesters
of carefully completed curricula,
I wore some champagne,
drank some sloe gin,
and felt fulfilled,
accomplished,
good.

I had done it.
I had a degree.
I had become a grown-ass man.

The next day
I loaded possessions into the car
with my mommy and daddy
and drove back home.
I took the same job I had
last year as a college student
and made the same money
and lived the same life
but this time,
with a diploma
available on request.

I hung with high school friends.
I drank legally.
I biked around the city
and got my driver’s license
and read the comics
my mother had collected
since I’d last been home.

It was a good life
but eventually,
all young men must mature
and take responsibility
and grow, and so,
in the Fall,
come the new school year,
I moved back up to my college town
to hang with my friends.

That fluffy ruffled skirt
swaying with every step
safety-pinned beyond recognition,
she signifies as a catholic girl gone bad
but in fishnets and leather,
Marten’s below
Pistols above.

She is the perfect picture
of punk post-pubescence
and effective affected rebellion.
I am in love

but she would loathe
a straight-laced geezer like me.

If only I could seem
as she does.
If only I could show
that I, too,

am revolting.

If only I were forty years younger
or she forty percent drunker
or the world forty percent more fictional.
Forty percent would do it, though,
of that I’m certain.

Maybe forty eight.