jonberger

I sometimes worry
about arriving too early,
peaking, and being well-known and wealthy
for the shallow accomplishments of my youth
and having all the quadrillions of fans
reaching out,
begging me to recite some of those lesser works
from my first raw years.

It is a fear
that has stayed with me
even as I’ve grown up and out,
well past my middle age
(that is to say,
under current projections.
I don’t much expect to live into my mid-nineties,
unless mortality is conquered
by the next sixties).

It is because of this anxiety,
I’m sure,
a paralysis I’ve found
in leaving myself no room to improve
in the eyes of the hungry world,
that has kept me achieving greater rewards.

I have no doubt
I have subconsciously limited my achievements
so that only when I am mature enough
to accept it
will I clutch all that I deserve
in my sweaty, bitter palms.

The only thing
that has ever stopped me
is me, I think.
I have to think that,
right?

Look, let’s get down to brass tacks.
There is really no question
we’re all looking for things from one another.
It’s human nature
and if our means of exploitation
are mutual,
or at least complementary,
then it’s to the good.
If they’re not
then we can just walk away
no harm, no foul.

It’s no big deal.
It’s no shame.
It’s just that we don’t seem to be on the same page.
And that applies to us.
You seem to be looking for a mentor
a wise geezer to inform you
of right and wrong,
good and bad,
left and conservative,
while I, on the other hand,
am seeking someone who will let me
ejaculate on her cat.

I might be willing to negotiate
just a bit
providing you some insight
regarding my experience and wisdom
in exchange for
just a little alone time with Whiskers.

The choice is yours.

It is cold
with frost forming on what leaves remain
and few bodies participating
in the ritual of visiting these grounds
where the greens rest
if only for a season.

It is grey here, quiet.
It is a place of quiet reflection
even in brighter seasons
but now:
stately. Calm.

Between columns,
plants abide.
Soft grass struggles,
considering a future
of growth.

It will happen.
The weather will change.
The cold will die
and the land will birth anew.
All the death
will become something else.

That is something,
isn’t it?
Even in the face of all this
there is something new
to contemplate.

Facing out
on the down bound train
she stares out the window
but sees nothing.
She is too close to the glass
so breath fogs the pane
beyond visibility,
and anyway, it’s too dark to see anything
at such a late hour.

She is deep in thought, though,
viewing, perhaps
something beyond the visible.
If she experiences anything,
it is clearly not a pleasant thing.
Her face betrays no joy.

Something is going on
for her,
something solemn,
something secret,
as the train goes down.

(Gleefully after Daniel Saftler)
Could somebody please explain to me
why,
every time I go out,
anywhere, at any time,
wearing a new pair of pants,
I find a way
immediately
to stain them?

Moreover, it seems,
on that first wearing
of that new pair of pants
– quality pants.
Pants from the best designers.
Pants that are not cheap –
the stains I produce
so remarkably resemble semen?

It is uncanny.
The last four slacks
I’ve broken in
at weddings and dates
and important business meets,
they all have cloudy designs
in embarrassing places.

I mean, sure,
every day
I have to eat
which is where most of the stains come
– arrive. Definitely not come.
Appear maybe? Appear –
and almost every time I go out
I order a bowl
of cream of broccoli
or New England clam chowder
or a winter white soup

and then what happens?
I come home
and the cream somehow
is all over
and people look at me
like I had too good a time that day.

All because
I cannot control my meals
and enjoy myself so much
that the soup in the spoon
makes me jittery
and excites me
and I hit the bathroom
and rub one out.

What does this mean?
Why is it happening?
Could somebody please explain to me
what is going in?

You were right to throw me out.
I was irresponsible.
I was callow.
I was selfish
and I never left the seat down.
I was a lousy room-mate
and deserved my fate.

I wasn’t mature.
I wasn’t growing.
I was stagnant
and that would never have changed
had you let me stay
rent free
while I worked through whatever issues
I was then suffering over.

The tough love
was all that could be done for me.
You had no choice
and anyway
I would probably have resorted
to prostitution and cannibalism
eventually anyway.
It was all fated
and righteous and unavoidable
and you hold no blame whatsoever
so worry not
and if you would,
please pass the brains back to me.

A newborn body was found
in the wreckage.
How bittersweet
to have survived nine months
in such confined spaces
to finally experience freedom from the womb
only to have such life stolen
because of some mechanical failure.

There were no survivors
which perhaps was just as well.
What would have life been
for that poor broken infant
or the mother
if only one had survived?

After the turmoil
of that aborted flight
at least they could share
a bit of peace.

God bless the current administration
and all it represents
for it has raised the hopes of every American,
native or not.
competent or not,
coherent or not.
that they have the opportunity
to accomplish anything.

Of course,
there are qualities that can help you rise:
wealth,
pale skin,
a dick,
but none are required.
They are more guidelines
in this current age
than rules.

Now, taste is irrelevant
Along with thought
and standards
and anything remotely associated
with qualifications.
This current administration
has upended the game
leaving anyone capable
of accomplishing anything.
God bless it.
And god bless everything
because why not?

The house is quiet.
Everyone is asleep
as I guard the perimeter
ensuring that nothing undesired arrives.

My property will not be impinged upon.
Only those with approval
may storm my gate.
Any who meets not
my fine standards
will face my sharp bite
and a taste of my claws.

They lack the elegance
to enter my lands.
They are without finesse.
They do not deserve to reap the rewards
of my fertile fields,
my garden of earthly delight.
If they had a modicum of my grace,
they could well defend against
the attacks I instill
in defense of my home
but they are graceless.
They are on the other side of the fence.
They will get nowhere near here
even while everyone else is asleep.

Hey, Mr. Podcast Man:
You’re boring!
You ask too many questions
that nobody really cares about.
Hell, they’re hardly questions.
They are barely statements.
All you add in your interviews
is irrelevancy
as you include your voice
so damned often
with no value.

Mr. Podcast Man,
can you improve your editing
and shorten your episodes
and include a better soundtrack
and hipper subjects
and maybe include more pictures?

Mr. Podcast Man,
you don’t release enough content.
Mr. Podcast Man,
there aren’t enough allusions to the Great War.
Mr. Podcast Man,
find advertisers that cater to my social-political views.
Mr. Podcast Man,
could you make it free-er?