jonberger

It got weird,
I’ll definitely cop to that,
and I’ll do whatever I can
to limit that kind of crap going forward.

I’m not gonna be stopping by unannounced,
just hoping you’re available.
I won’t dedicate songs and poems
and mixtapes to you.
You don’t even have a cassette player,
do you?
Maybe it’s time I leave the twentieth century.

If we so happen
to be at the same place,
the same event,
I’ll still say "hi,"
but I won’t be glued to your side
or keep you constantly in view
for the all of the succeeding proceedings.

I will use my prodigious powers for justice
to treat you like an actual
breathing human
and not an object of desire
that is elevated or otherwise separated
from the reality around me.
I’ll seek to have genuine conversations
and seek to keep you off the pedestal.

I’ll treat you better.
I’ll improve.
Even if you will have nothing to do with me
from now on
I’m going to fix the shit I was doing,
even if I die in the process.

I surely hope
it won’t come to that.

Increasingly
my neighbor calls
with small requests
that require attention.

She has no one else
or no one else near,
so I serve her
as best I can.

It is not hard
what she asks of me
though it is becoming more frequent
as we all age on.

Soon, I suspect,
I’ll be asked to clean up for her,
serving her needs one last time.
I hope it is not too soon.

I would rather
be inconvenienced
for just a little while longer.

So glad to hear
that you’ve widened your palate
and are willing to try more exotic meals,
less popular fare
in less appealing plates.
I’m pleased that you are more experimental now
more daring
more willing to give the strange a try.

You sound so much more centered now,
more prepared to take the world as it comes.
I’m so happy
how far you’ve come
and the many tastes you have now
on your tongue.

It’s a shame, though,
it took you so long
to experience them.

Beneath me,
at my feet,
I suspect
I feel a loose screw
and, if can take off my shoe
and sock
and have enough flexibility left
in that foot,
I may be able worry the head
and turn the screw
and finally dislodge it.

From there
I may be able to use its point
to fray the ties that bind me
in this inconvenient spot.
With hands free
there is the slightest possibility
I can unfasten enough of the floor
to exit this damned room
and escape through the floor.

There is a chance.
There is hope.
There is an opportunity
to be free
and I will take it.
I will be –
Oh. A Raisinet.

Delicious.

Some day, you’re gonna grow
and the songs of yesteryear
will hardly seem quite so significant.
You will mature
and change
and you will find that the pleasures
you once held so dear
will be hollow
and irrelevant
and you might even be ashamed
of those old joys.
The days when you would busy yourself
cutting box tops
to get the latest autograph
of the latest big star
may leave you feeling guilty.

You will find new interests,
the interests of adults,
the things that men and women care for
more than girls and boys.
You will love strong songs
of true and honest sentiment
and you will sing them
or come up with songs of your own
and swear fealty to new gods,
gods you never before imagined.

It’s all coming.
It’s all going to change.
You will be an entirely different someone
someday
and like things worth liking
and, oh god,
do I look forward to that day.

This is where we should kiss.
This, this silent moment,
this instant of tension
is seeking some kind of release
which would be found
in each other’s arms,
each other’s lips,
in each other’s nudity.

This is the time
we should fold into one another
admit our differences
and our commonalities
and what we really want and need.
This is the time
we should be getting horizontal.

If this were a movie
or a novel
or a comic book
we would have swirling views
moving us closer
a musical cue informing us
of our mutual destiny.
We would know
by our hidden director’s instructions
what we should do
which is kiss.

But we’re in no movie
no novel nor comic book
and there is no one telling us what to do
and even though I know
this is where the kiss comes in
I’m still standing here
waiting for some other sign
or opportunity or oh.

Oh, that.

In utter devotion
I promised her a flying chair
like Professor X had
back when Chris Claremont wrote him,
before the aughts.
I said I would use my powers
considerable as they are
(but not at Professor X’s level
– oh, certainly not that!),
to seek out for her
this tool of science fiction
that could mildly convenience her current existence.
She agreed
to allow me to quest
for her pleasure.

And so it began
with research
back into those X-Men comics of yesteryear
and a thousand science fiction movies
and then random picture-searches
– too many of which
ended up being porno-styled photos
of bald-headed beauties laying about in wheelchairs –
it was an ordeal.

I tried physics textbooks
and poetry journals
and even gave R. Kelly a shot
but he believed he could fly
not just float some several inches off the ground.
I wondered if I could get away
with possibly providing her a third-hand Rascal
but the devotion referred to in Stanza One
would not allow it.

Finally
I had to slink back to her presence
and, prostrate and pathetic,
begged forgiveness for failing
in my girl-granted quest.

“What?
The flying chair gag?” she asked,
“That was funny.
Who ever heard of such a thing?”

So I was off the hook,
chastened, ashamed,
a state that would only resolve itself
when I swore to someday serve her
a spear of Golden Broccoli.

That poem I wrote
that you didn’t like
and I promised I would never read?
That is a promise
that I have kept.
It remains unheard
to this day
but
see, it is just so very good.

I recently reread
the work that dare not be heard
and was amazed at its wit and style
– despite all the personal digs
and the cruel & unusual intentions
and – well, maybe because of all that.
Shit was great!

I was wondering
if there was some way
that you might consider
reneging on your request?
I have been patient with you
and your needs
these last two weeks
but I really think
that the literati
would go crazy for that piece
and it might put me on the map.
It might even be enough
for them to finally issue me my license!

Think of me
and my needs.
Let me read it.
Let me show it.
Let me get somewhere
with the poem I have promised to never share.
If you allow
I’ll break my vow
and would be so very very appreciative

Thanks.
Thank you so much.
You won’t regret it.
It’s already Number Four on the charts.

When the police tried to wake her
in the morning
to get her to move along
they found her
unable.
The night had been very cold
and the sleep she enjoyed
left her unable to rise.

They called a truck
to take her away
but before it arrived
she remained sitting
by the very brick wall
she had leaned against
all through the night.

The only difference seemed to be
no one was asking her to move along
anymore.
She had a couple coins dropped
in the cup beside her
that morning
but I do not know
what happened to them.

The little tyrant looks over my shoulder.
“Are you writing about me?”
I shake my head.
“Why not?”
I shrug.
“You should write about me.
Aren’t I pretty?”
I say nothing.

“Write that I’m pretty.
Say that I’m smart
and charming
and can dance a polka
faster than anyone else!”
“Why would you be dancing a faster polka?”
She ignored me.

“Talk about my rock collection
and the ants I experimented on
and how good I can be in jumping jacks
if I’m properly inspired.”
“You mean sufficiently bribed.”
“Whatever.”

“So, if I understand you,”
I should write about your better traits
and ignore your worse traits
and compliment you incessantly
and also praise you exhaustively.”
“Sounds about right.”
“And if I do this,
satisfy your every egotistical need
in this regard,
what’s in it for me?”
“I’ll leave you alone
long enough to finish.”