jonberger

The corner misses you.
The light under the lamppost
upon which we would lean
casts no shadow
where you once stood.
Your space is empty now
and no one dares replace you.

Our old hangout
may still be somebody’s hangout
but not for anyone I now know.
The spot we would share
is completely free of our community.

The flyers from our days
are gone
and the City doesn’t let anyone
post anymore.
You are gone
and I am gone
and there is nothing left of us there
but the corner misses you
and so do I.

Well, that story went south
right quick.
I wrote an alternate version
where everything works out
but you don’t want that
do you?
You…
you prefer the tension,
the drama, the danger
in how I ended it at first,
don’t you?

You want the blood.
you want the danger.
You thrill in the drama.
You seek it out.

I can’t blame you for it:
you’re not alone.
There’s an army out there
who seeks only the suffering,
the misery,
the torture set upon heroes.

It’s not right.
It’s horrible
but what else are characters for
but to be beaten for your pleasure
and what does it matter
if the characters may be real?

It’s not easy being the savior of the world.
The number of requests
coming in from an assortment of individuals
– a great number of whom
no longer believe in me
(almost all of which
failing to live by my word) –
is astronomical
and growing daily.

Sure there are real problems:
“Please save my village from flooding”
or “Let the Lightning Beasts
stop raping my grandchildren,”
but more and more of the prayers I hear
are of a smaller variety,
like “Let me make it through that yellow light”
and “Can my team FINALLY win the bout?”

It just gets so exhausting.
There’s only one of me
and my patience,
contrary to most claims,
is NOT infinite.
Neither is my capacity.

You know how many more of you
there are now,
and how many are whining to me
about petty-ass bullshit?
It’s not even only first worlders, either.
I got some people
who really should learn how to harvest their insects for nutritious meals and instead of asking for better crops for their kids,
they’re praying for a better ball
or to not get more AIDS?
Here’s a flash: there’s no more AIDS to get, Malcolm.
You’ve got it all.
Jeez.

It’s disheartening, I tell you.
My staff hasn’t grown much
despite the greater number of living
and subsequent greater number of dead.
My resources are limited.
I have too few assistants
and too few hours in a day.
You’d think I could make more
but it doesn’t really work that way.

If there’s a way,
you guys,
maybe you could lay off the prayers
for a couple of days?
Hours, maybe?
It would be sweet
to be able to catch a breath,
you know?
I’m sure I could handle
a few more millennia of this
if you give me a break.

I guess justice had its run.
I suppose righteousness and morals,
in vogue for a few years there,
are out of the picture
and now it’s time for something else.
Something stronger.
Something shifty.
Something dark.

It seems like tides are turning,
seasons shifting,
and revolutions are underway.
Everything old is fresh again
and everything good
is gone.

They say change is good
And every dog has its day
and I hope that’s true
and that today’s mutt is happy
and comfortable
because tomorrow’s on its way.

Bill Mantlo’s not dead
though his career sure is.
After the hit and run back in ninety one,
he cracked his head,
left less eloquent than the Hulk,
Bill wouldn’t be writing any more comics.
He’d been winding down for years,
working as a lawyer
– he couldn’t sue who’d hit him, though;
dude sped out, like Quicksilver.

Dig: this guy, Bill,
he was one of Marvel’s most prolific
in the seventies and the eighties.
At his height,
he was scripting eight titles a month.
"Deadline looming?
Call the Fill-In King.
Mantlo’s got ya covered."

He wrote Spidey and Skull,
Alpha Flight and Iron Man.
He collaborated on toy brand titles
like Rom and Micronauts.
Bill created Cloak & Dagger
and Rocket Raccoon
and was in on the first fucking limited series
Marvel ever put out.

And now Mantlo’s out of the business.
Brain trauma from decades ago
leaves it hard for Bill to speak a sentence
let along draft a direct market pitch.
He’s left the game
as he ages in a facility
somewhere by the water.

But
the thing about Mantlo?
He wasn’t very good.
He was a serviceable scripter at best
capable of stringing together some basic concepts
with a lot of lousy elocution.
When the Grim and Gritty Eighties gathered steam,
it was to sweep away old stuff
like Old Bill there.

It’s a shame:
Bill rots away.
Mantlo’s not the man he once was
and it’s a shame his many comics
are mostly forgotten
but it’s good that he’s gone.
His loss?

Our gain.
Bye, Bill.

Fish speak to me as I dream.
They tell me truths I could never hear
with eyes wide open,
with mind wholly shut.

They swim with me
in the night, whispering wisdom
that could change my life
or all our lives
or the course of human history
if I listened.
If I remembered.

Dear god,
why can’t I remember?

Dreams are meant
to provide revelation
to unpack the day
and leave me prepared for the next.
They are meant to unspool the wires
so I may be less taut tomorrow,
but knowing what I taste in the night
how can I find meaning in the morning?

The fish teach me all
I could ever need to know
offering bubbling lessons
tickling my ears with truth.
If only I could chose to learn.

Here’s a funny story
and by that I mean
here’s a story.

This girl
– for the purpose of the story,
let’s call her Lisa –
she was sitting at the same bar I was
and we were both alone.
We got to talking and
went for a walk and,
long story short,
we end up in Beltanda
at war against the Constitutional Terrorist Consortium
until finally,
peace gets a chance,
and we find our way to the rebels’ HQ slash beach house
for a sensual weekend of sex combat.

It was chance that did it.
Lisa had walked into this bar she’d never seen,
a place I’d only visited a couple times myself.
We found each other
and made a series of dares
with increasingly raised stakes
until we saved a fictional nation
from itself
and found ourselves
in each other’s arms
for a good forty eight hours
and then a pretty bad additional three.

Words fail
when considering the opportunities
the universe affords.
Beauty abounds.
Funny, huh?

I wonder what happened to that girl,
let’s call her Lisa,
though she’s really Simone.

To the off-color fellow
who read my recent poem
which included the word “rape”
and thought it an invitation to misogyny:
I need some clarity.
Please, if you will,
help a non-sister out
and provide some insight.

It is obvious
that you are a monster.
Your website is filled with such vitriol and violence
that there can be no way
a just god would allow you
within sight of any heaven conceived.
On this there is no question.
What must be questioned is:
do I belong with you?

When you read my poem,
did you see a kindred spirit,
a creature of evil and hatred,
who was so removed from humanity
that when you saw the word “rape,”
you thought I was truly painting it as possible?
Did you assume we were in agreement?

Am I fooling myself
in thinking that my irony is apparent?
Am I fooling myself
in thinking that I am funny?
Am I fooling myself
in thinking my claims of horribleness
are ironic?
Am I, like you,
a hideous beast?

Please help me,
you disgusting, wretched asshole.
Tell me:
Do I belong with you?
Am I going to hell?

I could not long tolerate the blessed smiles
on the faces of my horrid friends
so I left the party
to wander the streets
and ponder life’s greater problems
but really
I simply stood on the corner
outside your window
alone in the rain
trying to see you.

What kind of monster am I?

You would not want to see me here
so I am very glad
how obscured the rain has made me.
Your lights are on
so your reflection
further disguises my presence.
You will never know
that again, I follow you.

What kind of monster am I?

What kind of monster am I?
I’ve given you the space you demanded
for quite some time
and I thought I had been cured
of this particular addiction
but my feet did not know it.
My eyes do not know it.
My penis, apparently,
is a divining rod
driving me directly to your door.

What kind of monster am I?

You would not forgive me
if you knew
about this latest transgression.
I confess my aggressive need
to know your whereabouts
has proven problematic in the past
and seems that until the drouth shall rise again
I shall continue to pester
with my presence.

I am sorry for what I have done
and still will do.

What kind of monster am I?
A persistent one.

The Christmas bonus never came through
so now I’m wondering
how I’ll pay for all the murders
I had hoped
would make my life more bearable.
Perhaps I could invest in some gunnery
and express my right to bear arms
all over my enemies.

Then, perhaps,
I could revenge myself
on the guys who don’t park
all the way at the corner
this leaving me with no spot.
Or put on blast those fucker-dancers
on the five
who insist that we clap
even after they’ve forced their “entertainment” all over me.

I’d love to have assassinned
those crunching creeps always next to me
at the theater
and those goddamned seating planners
and their complete disregard for personal space
and if I could get my hands
on whoever thought I didn’t need to receive the change
when my order comes to nine oh eight,
then I would probably never
be able to get my hands clean again.

But I didn’t get the bonus
which means I don’t even have the means
to buy the supplies
to effect my demand
and have everyone killed.

Oh well.
I guess it’s time
to deliver burning poop to my boss.