jonberger

What is it about me
that causes so much dysfunction
in so many directions?
I’m a good guy
occasionally polite
sporadically charming.
I have been known to be funny
on several occasions
and can discuss at least four events
that are current.
With all of that in mind
why doesn’t your daughter like me?

I can see in her eyes
that she does not enjoy my company
or see much of value
in what I have to offer.
But what I have to offer
really, is so very much.
I own over forty Michael Moorcock novels
and a catalogic knowledge of mainstream comics
from the seventies and eighties.
Frankly, my dear,
who could ask for anything more?

And still she feigns disinterest!
What is it?
What can I do?
Who can I be
to gain her attention?
I’ll offer her candy
or treats of any other sort
if she looks my way.
I’ll get her a pony to ride
or a red corvette
or whatever animal she likes to draw.
Tell me how to bridge the distance
between your daughter and me.
I’m sick of it
and really don’t want a repeat
of her fourth birthday.

And suddenly
my face is stone.
I am still.
I have no control over my cheeks,
my smile.
My eyes are open
but I’m not seeing.
My lips are quivering,
my nose shivering,
but nothing’s coming out.
Rictus has set in.
I am in stroke.
I am gone
while still right here
in this moment
transformed.

I am not a man now
but a sounding board
a conduit for your feelings
any whims you might choose to express.

I am not any of the things
I anticipated at the start of this day.
All the hopes and expectations
have dissipated
while I remain, reduced,
reinterpreted into stone
and shame.

I carried a portion of my father
out to the island
because it is a place he knew
and loved well.

He would sit at the bay
so I opened the bag
and dropped a little on the bench
where he liked to sit.

I walked to the spot
where we studied sunsets
and salted the cement
with the ashes I held.

I delivered him to the library
the beach and other areas
he had appreciated
in more active times

and then brought the dad bag
to the dock
which first received me
and let the rest of him fall,
scattered by the bay
which had delivered all of us
at one time
to the island.

A hearty welcome to our invading conquerors!
We wish you well
as you approach our gates
with glory in your chests
and booty in your eyes.

May you see many things
worth pillaging
and few people who require slaughter
as we are a proud people
– proud of our flexibility
and willingness to bend
at the whims of our oppressors.
We hope you enjoy your stay
on our shores
and want for nothing
that cannot easily be taken.

If there is rapine to be done
please take advantage of our conveniently located pleasure centers identified by the word Penitentiary
at the entrance.
You will find a suitable population
available for your carnal desires
and if you have need of munitions
with which to further harass and destroy,
we wish you luck in finding them
for at the end of the day
don’t we all want the same thing:
the destruction of our enemies?
That’s rhetorical, of course,
we locals want merely to be left safe and secure
as you come through our territory
prepared to do what you will.
If you find any weaponry here,
we really don’t know where it came from.

As you look down upon our cowed streets
and defeated avenues
from your lofty position of superiority
we truly hope you have the time
of your genocidally victorious lives
in our fine land
and that you enjoy your wonderful
and brief
stay.

Yes, I suppose it’s possible.
I might be able to move some things around
conceivably.
I could have the meeting the next day
and I don’t need to stop by the bar
to see Delilah (she might not be there
anyway).
It’s all in the realm of possibility
but
is it really necessary?
I mean, how important is this event, anyhow?
Really, your daughter’s funeral
could not come at a worse time.

No, I understand.
It’s so rare to have your kids predecease you.
It’s a once in a lifetime affair.
I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you
but is the date set in stone?
Wouldn’t a Thursday make more sense
for the flow of the week?
I’m just suggesting it
as an alternate.
Hear me out.

If you move it up
you can be more selective with your invite list.
If you move it up
you might get a better price on the room.
If you move it up
it leaves the weekend still available
for bigger ticket events.
It’ll probably flow much better
for your higher profile attendees.

Consider it. Maybe we can work something out
or maybe I can make the appointed time work
or maybe
you could wait
until your daughter actually dies
instead of doing this kind of crap
every time she goes into the doctor’s office?

Either way
I’m there for you
convenient or no.

Arthur, old friend,
I love you like a brother
whose birthday I don’t bother to celebrate.
I have known you since the beginning of days
or at least since we first needed condoms.
Since you needed condoms.

We have great history.
We have great affection.
I have great respect for you
but I cannot
for the life of me
understand why you opted
to move to Houston
last month.

In a way, I get it.
I understand that LA
might prove too much for the man
and I could imagine how you’d
see the appeal of flyover states
with their low prices
and their great barbecue
but Texas?
Don’t mess with it.
And Houston?
For lowercase g god’s sake
they can’t even pronounce it right!

I wish you’d consulted with me
before your made this huge life choice.
I could have given you sage advice
and offered you access to my hovel
In the Bronx
before you did anything too hasty.
I wish you’d considered the options
and had anticipated the slight possibility
that you might end up in a once in a lifetime storm
– a perfect one, perhaps –
that could leave you up to your neck
in debt
and sewage.
I’m not judging.
I’m not shaming.
I just wish…
dammit, Arthur, why Houston?

To the editors of Writerly Writers dot tv:
the writing prompts you provided
for the last few weeks
have been sadly dissatisfying.
I don’t know what you were thinking
presuming I’ll be able to write a novel
based on your suggestion
to look at a tree, and pretend it’s singing to you,
or last Thursday’s,
when you said, “if any of my organs were to spontaneously implode, it would be… blank.”

What the what?
What am I supposed to get out of these,
Writerly Writers dot tv?
What quality compositions have you seen
from such harmful dreck?

I’m not blaming you
for your asinine suggestions
though I am fairly disappointed
that you haven’t risen to the occasion
and come up with more interesting prompts
to elicit more interesting ideas
from your most interesting contributors.

I’ll tell you what,
here are some suggestions
that can spice up your site
the next time you want to inspire the public:

“I was just about done getting fucked by a chicken
when the lights went out
and I was visited by a suspicious character…”

Not your cup of tea?
Not a problem. There are others
you should consider:
“Thursdays are the worst
for cleaning out the colostomy bags
If only because of blank…”

And there’s always this direction:
“The best reasons
the coming race war
will be fought on Venus
will become clear
after you hear this song… blank.”

All right. You guys consider these options,
Writerly Writers dot tv,
and I’ll get back to you
where you can write the residual checks
for my excellent contributions.

The light bathes your body
but it does not flicker
and you can feel it
before you open your eyes
onto the sun.

Your pillow is sand
and your bed
is made of sand, too.
You seem to have pulled some seaweed around you
perhaps for warmth
but it feels as if the tide came in
while you slept.
At least you hope it’s the tide
that has left your pants
somewhat soggy.

This is the sort of morning
that is once in a lifetime
where you ask yourself
how did you get here
for this is not your beautiful etcetera,
but the answer will not come to you in song
unless the melody is delivered by the Who
with you swearing you won’t get fooled again
waking onto a teenage wasteland,
feeling dizzy and blue, ‘cuz you can’t explain.
This morning is a mess.

You realize
that you’ve got sand in your shorts
and begin to wonder
for perhaps the thirtieth time
if Jim and Jack and Jameson
are really your friends after all.

It’s harder to like Lucas
with his smug toothless smile
and his requirement of entitlements.
He always acts like he has the answers
but really,
rarely does.

His brother is better.
Grant seems so responsible
so mature
though he’s barely a year senior
to silly Lucas.
Grant is a guy
that I could learn to respect
and love, while Lucas
is lesser.
Lucas is a loser.
Lucas
is likely a loss
and Grant is just great.

It’s gonna be a sad day
when I have to break it
to their mother
about the marked inferiority
of her littlest boy
I hope Sally will appreciate the info
eventually.
It will be good
to rip the bandage off
and tell her outright.
A grandfather knows these things.

The heels had been left
in the middle of the hallway
some time before dawn,
when I found them
coming back
from the ashes of the reception.
The hotel was mostly deserted
and the hall had lost
its residents
to all the night’s revel.

My evening had been magical
but ended with disappointment.
I wondered how the night had seemed
to the owner of the lonely shoes.
Had she removed them
to better dance the night away
or in need of a speedier flight
from too ardent a suitor?
Had she traded them
for less glamorous flats
as, upon midnight’s fall,
she transformed from a duchess
into a duckling?

All this imagination
invested into these empty vessels,
simply sitting beside the staircase
away from the elevator
in the epicenter of hall.
I wonder how much
those four inch heels
would have occupied me
had my night gone better,
were I not leaving the late-night after-party alone,
if I was awaiting the elevator’s arrival
with any kind of company.

I sighed.
The shoes were placid
and silent
as they rested,
abandoned,
their story untold,
while my story
was merely uninteresting.