jonberger

I know that our conversance amounts to but aught
but I’d just like to say that I care a whole lot
and that, if given less than a quarter a chance,
for the price of a song, to your tune I would dance.
If there’s something you want, like an unpicked liver,
just give me the order; I’ll soon deliver
the organ you asked for as quick as your wit
and cut to your gut I would but install it.

For today is your day. Whatever you wish.
If, say, you desire a barrel of fish
delivered from Sweden, in such high demand.
Just say the word, which I’ll then command
to my staff of assistants who do what I bid
and if they have opinions that differ, they’re hid
for they get that on this date you’ll get your way
for until midnight’s strike, what you like’s yours today.

If you just say so, I’ll get you a cat
or a rat or a gnat that wears spats. How ’bout that?
On your birthday, remember, that you should be pleased
so if there’s an opportunity you’ve found unseized
tell me what to do, and I’ll get it done.
It can be little, so long you have fun.
With all that I’ve got, I’m here for you
and anyplace else that you might want me, too.

I’m happy to serve you however I can
and if that makes you think that I am the man
that is working to have all your needs satisfied
or at least that with all of my efforts, I tried
then by all means, assume that’s as hard as I’ll work
to make you happy each day with no shirk
-ing or resting or sleep. For your joy
is all that I want. I’ll be your Joy Boy.

When Paddington was born
immigrant children
in immigrant England
saw him as one of them:
a short brown boy
from deepest Peru
sneaking his way well into the First World?

The story was written by Michael Bond
as a giant “welcome”
to all the kids arriving
from everywhere.
Thirty five million books were sold
– though that’s from all the tales
in the series.
TV shows, movies,
stuffed animals and sex dolls…
Paddington Bear did all right.

He showed that,
however hard it was,
whatever troubles could come
the spirit of Great Britain
could welcome any
who might seek a new home.
Paddington and Bond did that
but Bond is dead
(last month)
and that open generosity
might have beaten him
to the grave.

Rest In Peace, Michael Bond.
Rest In Peace, Paddington.
Rest In Peace, Old England.

I miss Daisy.
She used to be out here
with her clove cigarettes
and her sharp words
and, when she had time,
she’d ask what I’d been up to
even though
she had little reason to care.

She was untenably gorgeous
and smart as her outfits:
long tight skirts
wisps of shirts
and bangles and beads
that must have made it harder to tend bar
but made the process all the more enjoyable
to watch.
I loved the moments I could spend with her
away from the bustling barroom.
They were too few.

She’s not around anymore.
Daisy found better things to do
or richer people to serve
or maybe she got sick
of the puppydog eyes
of so many sad little customers.
Not every perfect flower
wants to be stared at
every fucking day of their lives
so sometimes,
they just get picked.

Sometimes, you write the poem
and only afterwards
do you realize whom it’s for.
Sometimes, you don’t meet the inspiration
until after you finish the work.

Sometimes, your brain
and heart and soul
and all other artistic aspects
of an individual
work in unison
to create something
that those parts cannot understand
and that very something
is brought into being
by the act of imagining it.
Sometimes, life
imitates art.

Sometimes, you cannot comprehend
just what you’re doing
until later,
when time or distance
or a change of perspective
allows you to see
what it meant at the time
and what it means later.

Sometimes, I write a poem
that describes you to a B,
and then,
some weeks later,
do you introduce yourself to me.
Sometimes, I only notice that poem
more weeks later
and glory in the magic.

Sometimes, serendipity.

Those gigantic sunglasses
do you no favors
hiding such excellent features
that should be presented
far more prominently.
Your phenomenal peepers
could be better displayed
reflecting that blazing sun,
enhancing their natural sparkle.

In those glasses
you look like
I have never seen you:
inferior to others
anything less than exquisite.
It is the first time
you have appeared ordinary.
It is the first time
I believe I have not wanted you.

Disguising your eyes
does all of us
– the entirety of existence –
a great disservice.

Those pursed lips
pretty prominent at this instant
brazenly showing,
for all to see,
your total antipathy…
now that is something
that could use some coverage.

I was relieved to discover
that when you said
you couldn’t make it out to see me
the excuse you gave
proved solid.
I checked it
against friends’ testimony and,
when I questioned the bias of the sources,
got some support
from private investigators
– several, so I could verify
their independent findings.

It was important to me
that you not be dishonest,
so I assumed you were dishonest
and sought all the information I could
to be proven incorrect.

I am so very glad
that I did
because now I know
how I can trust you
and treat you appropriately,
and now that you understand me
a little bit better
you too can do the same.

I just heard your performance
and let me tell you
that skirt fits you very well.
I really loved the choker you were wearing.
The lyrics you sang were really sexy
and your lipstick
is just the right shade of slut.

It was very impressive
the way you owned the stage
and commanded the attention
of every man in the place
and any number of the lesbians.
You did good, kid,
and let me tell you,
I am not an easy one to impress.

I think I might have
some ideas
as to what you can do
with your music
and your shows
and your further career.
I have suggestions
some strategies
that could get you
what you’re looking for.
If you’d like
I’d be happy to provide my thoughts
over drinks
or later over coffee.

Anyway, good job.
Let me know
if you want to get ahead
and maybe I’ll do the same.

I have been walking these wettened streets
stewing over what’s been said.
I see so many of the sites
you’ve cited from your youth.
This was the wrong place
to have a fight with you
where you know everything
about everything.
But then
there are so very many places like that
and I so enjoy
having fights with you.

The subjects barely matter
so long as there’s passion
fire
the explosive energy
that brings a flush to your cheeks.
I love to see you care
even if it means
I become the subject
of your disdain.

And often
it is eerily easy
to attain your ire. Like:
“When are you going to realize
that the pottery store is not
a poetry store?
No matter how many times
you may stare at the sign
they will not be the same thing
ever.”
or
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard
you say a good word
about your great aunt.
She must not be that great
after all.”

See?
Fish in a barrel
And then?
More fun than a barrel of monkeys.
We fight
and sometimes
we make up
but either way
I get you at your best
your most furious
most passionate.

It is all I ever want.

I wouldn’t have liked it with you, anyway.
It might have been fun at first, sure,
but eventually
it would have been tiresome
to be with someone so beautiful
so elegant,
one who made every interaction
an attempt to be the best
she could possibly be.
It would have been exhausting
trying to keep up.

It would have been annoying, too,
being seen with one
so much more gorgeous,
so associated
with society’s standards of exquisition.
It would be hard
to never be up on your level
and to know full well
you were too smart
not to know it, too.

My paranoia would have grown
by leaps
by bounds.
My jealousy would have tripled overnight.
I would learn to be a man
far more petty
than the one I am today.
It is for the best
that you’re clearly not into me.
It is pragmatic to give up the chase.
It is only wisdom
to have aborted the effort
before investing unduly.

I’ve got a show on Friday
where I’ll read stupid words
like these
into a microphone
for the people
who are dumb enough to come
but you won’t be there
because almost no one
is ever dumb enough to go
even though they say
“Good job!” after they see me
read words into microphones
and say
“I really liked the third one!”
when they might not even have been in the room
when I was reading.

They don’t come to the shows
which hurts a little
for each one that isn’t there
so even though
there are always some bodies around
and they always act enthusiastic enough,
the absence of the rest of the world
is proof negative
of the quality of my work.

If people wanted to hear my dumb voice
speak lame sentences
then they’d be there
and they’re not.
They won’t be.
They don’t come
but I perform anyway
because that’s what An Artist does
despite the regular pain
of your regular absence
every time.

Anyway
the show’s on Friday
at the usual place
and I’d really like you to be there
when I say some of those dumb words
but I doubt I’ll see you
this time
or the next.