jonberger

I am not a pretty boy.
I am not just a pretty boy.
I have more than my curvy figure
to recommend me.
I have a brain beyond
this subtle shape so many
find so appealing,
a fanciful charm
beyond the form you fancy.

Some say I have a kindness about me
even more luminous
than my shiny scalp.
Yes, I sometime glow even brighter
than my sweat would suggest.
I have a soft soul
that complements my tenderly soft skin
and stomach.

There is so much to look to,
other factors that make me attractive
beyond my five chins,
four eyes,
three hundred and fifty pounds,
two infarctions
and wonderful sense of humor.

I am as deep as I am wide.
My stories have more twists
than my intestines
and my very personality
varies more than my scent.

I am beautiful on the inside
as well
and just so you know
my eyes are up here.

Monty and Muriel are dead.
I knew neither of them
but people I love
feel an absence
due to their respective absences
so I feel a little something, too.

Grant is also dead.
He’s a stranger to me, as well,
though I knew him by reputation
of his great works
some time ago.
He, too, has left an awful hole
in an awfully great number of people
some of whom I care about greatly.

It’s a shame
how only after one’s passing
can one be appreciated
by the greatest number of bodies.
Only in death
is it likely for Grant
to get his due.

I don’t really know
what’s coming for Muriel, though,
and as for Monty?
Forget it.

I love you more than the world
and would do anything for you
but don’t ask me to give up meat
or cheese
or donuts
or extra-relational sex with the untested
or dumpster diving.

I will change anything you request
to stay together
except for my unnaturally close relationship
with my mother
and my affection for superhero comics
and my fashion sense.
And my prog rock.
And Juggalo Life.
That’s gotta stay.

I care.
I don’t want us to end.
I believe that we can work it out
and I will make every effort
to make the peace.
I can do the dishes
even more than half the time.
I can call if I’m gonna be late.
I can leave the seat down
in the bathroom
and not ask if it’s that time of the month
like, eight different times every month.
I’ll keep closer tabs on your calendar,
I swear.

I’ll try to cut down
on ogling your sisters
and your nieces
and your great grand aunt.
I promise,
I will do my very best.

Please, let me try
to be the man you deserve.
Let me remain in your life
unless this is all about
me shaving down there.
If it is,
I will have a fucking fit.
It itches…

I voted because I’m better than you.
I voted because I believe in something.
I voted because
it is my duty as a citizen of this land
to speak my mind
and make my voice heard
for all who could be bothered to listen
and many who can’t.

I voted
because my democratic ideals are first rate.
I voted because my needs were not seriously
taken into account
during the last election cycle.
I voted because it is my right.
It is my privilege.
It is my responsibility.
I voted because it’s what I saw on my schedule for Tuesday afternoon after waking up.

I voted because
I am presently underemployed
and had little else to do
to make the hours pass.

I voted.
Just because.
I’m a voter.
What are you?

Nobody uses the Google anymore
or even text-based keyboards
since thought-driven tech
got so cheap.
There’s a Museum of Wires
for all the things that we used to plug
into other things.
Nobody goes.

All the Starbucks are closing down.
The caffeine and sugar
doesn’t seem to agree with people much
in this modern day and age.

It’s almost impossible to get your hands
on a gas-propulsion vehicle these days
– everything is self-perpetuation drives
and instant transportation.
No one luxuriates in ground traffic
like way back then.

Whatever happened to the good old days
of fossil fuels
and planned obsolescence
and stagflation
and corporate malfeasance?
There was a sense of effort back then
a belief that
you had to earn your keep.

I wish I could be back then
and once I complete building
that do-it-at-home time travel kit
patent pending
I’ll be able to.

The barfly that I love
is making out with some balding white dude
with a wallet chain.
Two suitors
have been circling her for hours,
each more hipster than the other.
I think the wallet chain was able to supply more drinks
so its owner
is sloppily grasping
the owner of my lonely heart.

From tables away
through my own brand of beer goggles
I see a look in her eyes
I can remember
from when we’d first met
and the world seemed new
and life was more like a buffet
and less like closing time
at an under-stocked arcade
when you hold
only a handful of tickets.

She’ll drink her fill of him,
my barfly will,
as she has, no doubt,
many before us
and will many afterwards.
She is seeking a taste of something,
I suspect,
that she has not yet found.

I wish I could have satisfied her.
I wish I knew
what flavor she was seeking
so I could supply it
and give her the drink that she wants.
I wish I could look away
from her
and the hipster in her arms
but I can’t
so instead
maybe I’ll get out my billfold
and get blind drunk.

You know…
Really? I have to spell it out?
I can’t believe you’re putting me in this position.
Fine.
I hate being this guy
but I have to tell you
that there’s a pecking order
a hierarchy
in just about every part of the world
and most certainly in our little place.

There’s an unseen structure
that guides our interpersonal dynamics
and those with keen eyes
– not yours –
can see it
can understand it
can appreciate, truly,
the necessity
the majesty
the elegant divine design
of our social order.

I’m sorry all of this wasn’t clear
to you.
You’re new
and can’t see things
the ways that studied eyes do.

In any case
in this pecking order
your opinions means
I’m sad to say
nothing.
Your ideas are irrelevant.
Your beliefs do not merit discussion
and your voice needn’t be heard.
I wish this information
could have been imparted
at an earlier time
but, well, Leonardo,
you should have been able to absorb this
without my explanation.

So, for the foreseeable future
do mind your manners
and shut your mouth.

I know.
You’re probably right:
you’re not worth it.
You can’t offer me anything close
to what I want;
you don’t have it in you.
And I don’t have it in me
to be satisfied with what you will provide
(it is, after all,
so very little).

And you’re right:
I will get over this.
It seems inconceivable
that I would stay in this state
interminably. Eventually,
I’ll escape this funk
and feel better about myself
and feel less bitterly about you.
Someday, I will think of you
with a smile.

Not today.
Is it obvious
you’re too important to me
for me to be wistful
and neutral
and happy.
I will come back to you
when I can see you
from the proper perspective.
I hope you’ll still be here
but if you’re not
by then
I guess it’ll be just as well.

Look, we can work this out.
We can talk to your roommate
or your super
or the building management.
We can talk to your friends
or that boyfriend you
– ex-boyfriend?
Oh, thank God.

There are still options.
It doesn’t have to be a cataclysm
or a catastrophe
and your cat doesn’t have to be left
out in the cold.
As said above,
you’ve got options.

You can find a share.
You can call your cousin.
You could try out one of those new
housing services, or
I’ve heard good things
about communes and cults these days…

There’s your sister.
There’s your mother.
There’s your ex-brother-in-law
or any variety of homeless shelters.
I can buy you insulated boxes
if you need to be on the street for a beat.

Look, you can’t come home.
I love you like a daughter
whose room has already been converted
but, after all the things we’ve said
and all the oaths you’ve sworn,
don’t you think it would admit defeat
to just come back here,
where you always felt so constricted,
so dependent, ineffective?

I can’t do that to you.
You need to be strong.
You can’t come home, baby.
I’m sorry.
I love you too much.
You can’t come home again.

You’ve moved on
if ever you were truly here
to begin.
You seem happy together.
You make quite the pretty pair.

I think of him sliding upon you tonight
doing the things I never dared,
pleasing you in ways I was unprepared to.
I imagine how
in drunken throes
you stroke his hair
where he has it
and kiss his chest.
I picture the butterfly touches
and feather kisses you provide
and I am undone.

I know you’re better off.
I can see clearly
the perfection
you two could share.
I get it.
I understand your choice,
painting the portrait of you two tonight,
envisioning the joy
you might have,
your delicate strokes,
and then
in solidarity
I stroke myself in turn.

It is not enough
to take the pain away
but it brings something else
to the equation