jonberger

My therapist keeps telling me
it’s time to rape a bitch
– though not quite with those words.

He explains
that I need to exude confidence.
I must present myself
as deserving of others’ affections
and assume, under all circumstances,
that she
(whomsoever she may be)
is into me.

He tells me
far too often
that it is important
I put my needs first
and respect myself
and that just because she may say no,
she probably wants me to ask again
and again
and anyway, no
doesn’t always mean no.

All of this
seems quite counter to my training
as a sensitive new age guy.
Quite counter
to the word on the street,
in the face of every paper I read,
every girl I know,
every thing that I believe.

He wants me to be intuitive
despite the fact
that my intuition
wants me to get some
even if the girl’s does not.
He wants me to be assertive.
He encourages me to be more aggressive.

He is telling me
my intuition informs me
that it’s time to rape a bitch.
When I bring this up
he denies it
but I’m pretty sure
what he really means.

My therapist keeps telling me
I can’t punch a motherfucker
or argue with my boss
or fist fight with my mom
or teach those young whippersnappers
a thing or two
when they litter in the park.

Over and over again,
session after session,
I keep asking him “what is the point?
Hate is in the air.
War’s a’comin’.
Communication’s broke down,
same as it ever was.

It’s all falling apart,”
I tell him,
“What are you gonna do
but watch the planet burn?
At the very least, we can enjoy the view.”

He sighs,
looks me in the eye,
and replies, “I
told you before:
You can’t do that.”

He talks to me about responsibility,
propriety and restraint,
and the superego combatting the id
and telling me how all my impulses are wrong
and I keep waiting
just for once
for my therapist
to finally say something positive.

To Sister Louisa Immaculata,
the hot nun
with whom I volunteered at the pantry
last weekend
who subsequently rejected all my advances:
I am sorry for consequently cursing at you
both so frequently and so enthusiastically.

I shouldn’t have called you a tease
or a harlot.
I don’t know what came over me
other than pure lust for your hot
hot body.
I suppose that robe must make you hot
however taut and tone you may be beneath it
on any given day.

But last weekend, you were ever so tone
and taut
and hot
and my behavior was hot-tempered
and when the conversation got heated,
the responses I fired out
were just too much,
I see that now.
You were just so sweet
and innocent
and… damn, hot.

Still, in my defense:
when a man and a woman
work in close quarters for a number of hours
it is only assumed
that nature might take its course,
even when one of them
may be a Sister of Judgement and Mercy.

Nonetheless,
I’m sorry for how I acted
and what I insinuated about your marriage
and I wish I could take it all back
except that moment
when I held the ladder for you.
That was… pretty cool.

Why would you think that your behavior
would be considered appropriate?
Did you really think the robes and marriage
would excuse you from typical social behavior?

I can tell, already,
this night will disappoint me.
My needs will not be met.
My hopes will not be realized.
I will discover truths about myself
or my society
and they will be unpleasant.
I can see this all etched out before
simply from the layout of the room.

Things will go badly,
though I looked forward madly
for what was to come,
it’ll all end up sadly.
I’m gonna have a miserable time
and all expectations will be left unmet.
Positive expectations, I mean.
The others,
the negative thoughts
that fuel all my days,
those prognostications will play out
perfectly.

Isn’t that the way,
that good ideas will be unrealized
but every evil thought in my head
will be fulfilled?
Isn’t that strange?
Isn’t that true?

Fine, maybe it’s not for you
but for me,
I know,
it’s all going down tonight
– in a bad way.

Well, that happened.
I don’t think anyone can deny
in any way at all
that that happened.
Throughout history,
there will be dozens that recall this day
and consider the events around the occurrence
and speak of it.

Some may speak well
and some may speak ill.
Many will speak ill.
Most.
All, most likely,
will speak ill,
except for the polite
or the confused,
or the mentally ill.

But it matters not
for today is a day
where things were attempted
and heights were climbed
and if we fell in the process?
So what?

That is what comes to those who dare.
That is the fate for the ones
that make things happen
like that
which happened
today.

The words have worn off the cross
by the roadside.
The flowers, withered,
have blown away.
The pictures faded, cracked.
Even the graffiti on the nearby overpass
is barely legible.

So much time has passed
since the event.
There is no organic evidence left
of what had once occurred here
where no exit can be found.

Still, far from the location
there remain cracked voices
that speak to the memory
of the tragedy.
Far from the scene,
somewhere,
is the legacy of a good boy
and a sad day
and an avoidable error.

Rest in peace, Jose.
You are missed.

If you talk to me
I might listen.
I may be able to help
if you ask.
I am here.
I am available.
I got nothing going on
and I could be there
as you need
but
I need your help
to know.

Talk to me.
Tell me what I can do
and I shall do what I can.
Speak up, and let me know:
can we talk?

I hope you’re happy now.
I hope regarding what you’ve done
you feel perfectly pleased.
I hope you’re prepared for any repercussions
but that none occur
and you can go on
without any ill will
or shame or sacrifice
after all that you enacted.

I hope this leads to better things.
I hope you use the opportunity this affords
and grow
and mature
and do better work
and become a better person.

I hope you exploit your luck
and grow
and prosper
and transform into something even more wonderful.
I hope you’re satisfied.

I really
really really
really really really hope you’re happy now.

You knew what you were getting into
with me.
You saw what I was
as soon as we met.
I didn’t hide my identity
or keep you out
of a secret circle
that admitted information
that you weren’t privy to.

What I was
how I would be
was on full display
on Day One
and almost every day that followed.

So I cannot accept
your grievances now,
your claims of betrayal,
your gaping disbelief.

I told you I was the scorpion
in our introduction.
How could you claim surprise now?

The world is made of things
with distinct purposes and utilities.
Consider location.
A car is not suited
to be a home
in winter, especially
if you live with a bull mastiff
that farts – regularly.

The world is made of dreams,
not all of which need be achieved.
It is the wish
that drives us along
not it’s fulfillment.
Consider the collie
who constantly chased after cabs
until finally
she caught one.

The world is made of living creatures
destined to act in specific ways.
Though we all can strive to deviate
from the boxes
in which we are been placed
there is only so much movement available.
Consider emergencies.
A St. Bernard can race to your rescue
saving you from a snowy death
but don’t ask him
to drive your ambulance
– and his helicopter skills?
Best left untested.

The world is made of epigrams
and with enough work,
they can all include canines.
Consider parking lot sex.