jonberger

I’ve been looking around
seeking some reason
to keep on keeping on.
It hasn’t been easy
to find the motivation
when you’re not motivated to find it
but I’ve been struggling
to see something through the mists
or fog
or whatever’s out there.

I’ve been trying
and it’s been trying
and I don’t think I’m getting any closer
though I know
I can find that thing
around any turn.
Be it archery
or bigotry
or revolution
there’s something out there
I’ll bet
that can occupy me for the next thirty or forty years.
Right?

It’s out there
or in me
or in you, maybe.
Could you be
the thing I’ve been searching for?
Or maybe your iguana?

God’s sake, don’t leave me behind.
I can catch up,
eventually.
Give me the chance
and I’ll reach your level,
I know it.

I can do it.
I will follow
I will race
I will chase your behind
until I’m up to speed.

Just
don’t end it.
Let me try.
Don’t call the tournament
before I get an opportunity
to get back in the game.
I’ll get to it
if you just give me enough time.

There is a flower in that field.
Let it grow.
Let it grow.
It’s beauty cannot be contained.
Let it shine.
Let it glow.
The world will trash it
at its whim.
Let it go.
Seeds will blow.

Time will show
that there is no
plant on the planet
that won’t get sowed
eventually, you know?

And everything left to its own devices
will attain the very best
that its fate will allow.

It is better to think that way.

We’ve been talking about getting together for years
but it never seems to get anywhere.
We continue to act
like we’re friends
but we never actually act on that friendship.
We are posers
I think
and will not do
what we claim to want.

And maybe I’m putting thoughts in your head
or words in your mouth
or motives into your mind,
I don’t know
but I’m pretty sure
that I’m describing myself accurately
and I think it applies to you, too.

We keep thinking
about what we should do
but we seem to never do it.

He knows something is wrong.
He can smell it
in the frozen air.
He senses somewhere
that something is amiss
in the Force
(or the Source
as Kirby called it beforehand
– yet another example
of the King being crushed
by yet another organization
stealing credit
for his creations).
He does not realize
what it is
that has happened
or what can be done about it.

He can tell, though.
He can smell it through
all the other senseless things about,
the chaos and lies
that abound all around.
He understands that somehow
his world has strayed from its presumed path
though he has stayed
exactly where he always has.
Somewhere else,
it’s happened
and he can’t say what it is.

He hopes it will all improve
if he wakes up
and then perhaps
he can enter into this new existence
and maybe remember his name.

She says, “can’t you do anything else?”
as I look over her shoulder,
hoping that someday
she’ll finish her math.
“Of course I can,” I say,
“but I can’t imagine anything
that would give me more pleasure
that sitting here, watching you.”
She gives me that killing look
we both know so well.

The Little Tyrant does what she can
to delay the inevitable
of learning, working
and growing.
I try to belie the delays
as best I can
but she is masterful
at engineering off-track distractions.

“How about a poem?”
she asks.
“You like those.
Why not write something
while I’m finishing up these chores?”
I’m happy to comply
so I compose,
imposing my creativity
upon an identification of her impossibleness.

It is a race, then,
between us,
as she strives to get to TV time
and I struggle to finish writing,
before this creature who controls me
eventually jumps up to shout,
“I’m done! Finally!
Now can I go out?”

For all the myriad social and aesthetic crimes
that can be placed at the feet of Solvognen,
the performance art troop
that initially played the prank
that grew to become SantaCom,
crawling across forty countries
and a billion bars,
they still deserve much praise, too.

Sure, seeing the army
of douches they inspired
out on the street
every year
like some kind of leprous legion,
all elf ears
striped tights,
cretinous caps and vomit-stained beards and,
well, everything.
Everything about those stupid SantaConners sucks

but, god bless those bastards,
thanks to the work of Solvognen,
we can identify those that appreciate SantaCom
and isolate them
and separate them
from the rest of the community.

When next the Santas convene
we’ll know how to fine them
and we already know what to do with them
so thank you, you jerk bastards
who first gave us SantaCon
for also giving us the means to stop it.

If you fuck me,
I’d really appreciate it.
If you would fuck me,
it could be such fun.
It might be a story
you tell all your friends,
’bout when you fucked that one guy
and then run.

I’d buy you a dinner,
if you wanted to fuck,
or go off mud-wrestling
to touch in the muck.
I see options aplenty,
were we to go there.
You could go down to town.
I could kiss all your hair.

Just please keep in mind
the chance we might fuck
It could be at my place.
It could be in your truck.
If there’s ever a time,
or a place, or a way,
I would love to go sex you,
unless I am gay.

When you’re feeling small
when the world is crushing down
with more force than Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam
you can scream out your story
and should.
You can whisper it
or even simply blink out your miserable tale
in Morse Code.
No nuance need be lost
to a deaf audience.

Feel free.
Share.
Let everything out.
Express yourself
in any way you wish.
You can say whatever you want.
Nobody’s listening.
Nobody cares.

Your sorry state
can be presented any way
and all ways
on every day.
Tell her about it
or him or them
of brag on your blog
about your bog of woe.
Make your pain known
as best you can.
It won’t matter.

You remain alone.
There is joy to be found there
if you know how to look.
Once you accept the nothing you deserve
it all gets better
or so I’m told
I think.
Really, I couldn’t be bothered to listen.

Regarding your party:
so far
I have had a miserable time
at your event.
Because you are so assuredly popular,
negotiating anything since entering your building
has proven most frustrating.

Were you any less charming
or less familiar with so many cliques
of varied shapes and sizes
the crowds surging in your apartment,
hallway, stairs, and bathroom
would I doubt be more manageable
and I would not currently be downstairs
on the street
looking up to your landing
trying to bum a cig
when I have never smoked in my life.

Your party sucks,
I think,
because you’re too cool.
Merry Christmas.