jonberger

The air is sweet,
the clouds puffed.
The breeze is mild
persistent and cool,
and the sound is funky.
You’d have liked this show.
You’d have called it relaxing.

I’m sorry
that I never took you to Brooklyn
to see such a thing.
I’m sorry
we never lay together
in the grass
beside picnic
and listened to groovy tunes
on a lazy summer afternoon.
I’m sorry
that the timing wasn’t right.

I glance through the crowd today
wondering if someone smarter
someone better
has brought you to this fine event
so you could get
what you always deserved:
a pleasant time
with a good man
or woman
or one not yet determined in place
on the spectrum of gender.

You always deserved
all of the genders.
I hope
wherever you are
that you’re having a good day
and you realize
I’m sorry
I couldn’t give that to you.

Honey, there’s no need
to take it so serious.
It happens to every girl
every now and again.
Might as well lie back
and enjoy,
if you’ve heard that before.

Sweetheart, if
you’re just going to take offense
at every insensitive thing I say,
you may never have time
to take offense
at the awful things I do.
There aren’t enough hours
in the day,
if you can believe it.

Yes, I’ve been bad.
Sure, you’ve been hurt.
Of course, it’s a travesty
– a crime, even, but
what’re you gonna do?
Really, what can any of us do?

Yes, there is that.
I suppose so.
Sure, if you…
Well, but…
Damn, girl.
So serious!

Dear Terry Pratchett,
Thank you for all
the writing you’ve done for me
– and the rest of the world as well,
of course.
Your brilliance
and ways with a phrase
are renowned and appreciated
I can tell you that.
You’ve given so much
and I worship at the feet of your words
– I do – but
I am afraid
that I need something more.

I would be very particularly gratified
if you could send a note
to my girl.
My former girl.
My girl- to-be.
One of those, I guess.
She’s always loved your writing
and the collaborations you’ve had with others
and she respects your stories
even more than I do,
I think.
She adores you, really,
can’t stop talking about you,
and if you could write to her
and tell her to stop talking about you
and maybe give me the time of day,
well, that would just mean the world.

She is just so focused on not-me,
you see,
and I really need her to pivot a bit
and send more attention my way.
I’m sure a word from you
will do the job
particularly if attached to a first edition
of a rare volume of yours.
Perhaps Strata?
Thanks in advance for supplying the book,
by the way.

Now, I understand
that you’re currently deceased,
which is why I truly appreciate
very very much
you getting around to this
at your earliest convenience.
Thank you so much
for your time, really.
Jon

I know you’re quoting me.
I can tell
that you’re listening to what I say
and appropriating the parts that you like.
You’re sampling me.
You’re collecting my ideas
and you’re using them
for your own suspicious purposes.

I get it.
Even I, occasionally,
will take the words
of those around me
and use them as my own.
The appeal to take
what is not yours
is very strong.
I understand.
I empathize.

But they’re mine,
my words,
and you’re mining them.
Mine!
I appreciate the honor
you bestow upon me
and respect your sources immensely
(obviously),
but would appreciate it
if all future conversations you are involved in
begin with the words
“This has been brought to you
thanks to the brilliance
of Jonathan Berger
without whom none of this would be possible.”

You could deviate
from the script I provide,
I suppose, but
why start now?

You knew what you had to do.
You knew the options in front of you,
the opportunities available.
It was all clearly laid out for you.
Laid? Lain? Whatever.
You knew what you were getting into.

You had a clear path
and an interesting path
and a lot of others in between
and, as far as anyone can tell,
you took none of them.
You opted for the path
of least resistance, which,
thinking about it,
has proven
in the long run
to be something much harder.

Did you intentionally go for the passive way?
The aimless way?
Such a goddamn useless way?
Whatever took you down
your long and winding road,
you’re stuck with it now.
It’s your past.
It’s what has defined you.
It is who you’ve been.

The next question:
what’re you gonna do about it?
The path that took you here
needn’t define you forever.
You can break chains
or stake new directions
whenever you choose.
Will it be today?
And where will you go?

Not so clear anymore,
is it?

At the club
all the girls are going to the bathroom together
into single-stall rooms.
I can’t decide if
they’re involved in aberrant sex
or godless opium abuse.
Either way,
I want in
but they won’t talk to me before heading to the head
and won’t look me in the eye afterwards.

So I look on
intrigued
seeking more information
about the goings-on
in The Little Girls’ Room.

I shall research.
I shall learn.
I shall become knowledgeable
and then one
with the ladies aplenty.
All I need do
is wait.

It proves to be
a fruitless night.

There’s a sweet little girl
in the park
wearing a t-shirt that reads
"Whatever"
like there’s nothing in the universe that matters.

Somebody went to the effort
of selecting the shirt
and paying for it
and providing it
to this adorable tiny creature
to wear without care
wherever she may roam.
Somebody else
thought to make the shirt
in the size of a toddler
to better spread this mood
of cliched blase
across the globe.

A sad series of souls
found it important enough
to spread this spirit of nihilism
to our most wide-eyed of spirits.
This pre-nymph had been burdened
with a disaffectation
well beyond her years.

Indifference is internationally injected.
It’s a shame.
It’s a line item in the sorry state of the world.
It’s a calamity in the making
that will not yield its evil seed
for years to come
but so what?
It’s not my kid.
Whatever.

Is your brother your keeper?
Is your family responsible
for your decisions
even when you’ve left them,
even when you live apart?
Must you all fight each other’s battles
after schism, division,
and civil war?

If you’re paying your own rent
have your own kids
own your own business
then are you free
from those that spawned you?

Really, when is enough too much?
When will you be free of them
and they of you?
When do you get to decide
who your family is
the family of your heart
if not the one of blood?

Most to the point,
just who is it we should call
at this wretched hour
to bail you out?

The thumbtacks hold the string
that makes visible the lines
that show all the connections
between all the secrets
that they all want to keep
from us all.

I have many colors of string
but only one kind of thumbtack:
clear
so that nothing will distract
from the truth they help to outline.

If you are willing to look,
I will show you
my vision boards
of the Secret State of America
and describe for you
all that it signifies.
You will be shocked
at how deep it goes.

Are you interested?
Because I have to warn you:
you’ll have to de-infest,
wear the sonar drowning foam,
and change positions
every four picoseconds
lest they uncover
that we are on to them.

Are you in?
Blink your response
in Base Seven.

There are three girls
throughout my storied history
whom I dreamed about
drinking Sprite
with great significance and meaning.

Jennifer came to me at night
in high school
at a time
where I never thought anyone
would ever want me.
In dreams, she did
and imagining her
occupied my time
for most of the next three years.
Sometimes she spoke kindly to me
but never more than that.

Julietta was different
and dreaming of her
coming to my house
for a cool, refreshing soft drink
leading to a shameful display
in the living room
ended up being repeated
in reality
almost to the letter.
Julietta was a cool drink of water
and she drank a truly mean Sprite.

And now there is you.
I’m not quite sure
which scenario you’ll represent
and until I am
I don’t think I’ll tell you
about the many dreams
in which you played a significant part.
Suffice to say,
if at all possible,
I would like
to offer you a drink.