jonberger

It was the fall of Winter
when I first made her smile.
It may have been
the last time, too.

Since that warming day
and all the heat she produced
I have been circling
following
questing and hoping
for some repeat,
some recompense,
some sense of reciprocation
with nothing forthcoming.

Springing into this new season,
it might be time to admit
I’ve even chasing my own tail
trying to find a way to catch her attention,
trying to catch that first high
over and over again.

That admission will only bring me low, though
so I will delay that day
perhaps
for another time of year.

Well, I see it now:
I lost and you won,
as if it was ever
actually a contest between us.
No, I have lost her heart
and you, clearly,
have gained the greatest prize
that any could ever treasure.

In honor of your great victory
I will offer you these words of warning
like Bush did for Clinton
or Hitler to Stalin.

She will want your honesty
in all things
so when she asks how those jeans look,
tell her.
She yearns for a partner
she can trust
even about horizontal stripes.

Though you must sometimes break the truth to her,
she still deserves nice things
even if she will not
always allow herself to have them.
So on occasion
you must surprise her
with that bottle of wine
or that video game
– even if she doesn’t know about it yet.
Treat her,
however expensive.
Use her money, of course.
She won’t miss it.

Don’t use condoms.
She hates the feel of latex.
Even if she says she wants to be safe
she secretly yearns
for a taste of danger.
Even if you slip it off
half way through,
she’ll thank you later.

Knowledgable and curious
as she may be,
there are areas where she lacks
the necessary education.
Provide to her
all the information you can
on any subject that arises.
Spare no detail.
Define mansplaining to her,
if it comes up.

There.
I hope this advice will serve you well
in your forever adventure
and, if,
in some inconceivable twist of fate
you and she are not a perfect match
and you do, eventually, part,
I hope you will do her next partner
the kindness of providing these suggestions
so he, too,
will know how to treat her.

If that happens
let me know.

This one perhaps
will make the difference.
This one, possibly,
will change it all.
This plate of fried goods
may be the one to finally fill
all the emptiness within.
Something must complete me;
let it be this french fry.

I have been hungry
for so long
looking for the thing
that will enter the hole
drowning it
with some glorious warm goo
of joy or happiness
– something that will take my hole
and make me solid.
Complete.
Resolved.

There is some snack
– maybe dried snake niblets –
that will make my soul fertile
where now it lies barren
a delectable delight
after which
I need never eat again,
since I will have consumed everything
worth having.

I will find that food
and enjoy the final fry
even if I must eat my way
through the store
one trough at a time.

Well, the president’s done it again
and this time
he’s gone too far.

This sort of behavior
is simply not acceptable
or appreciated by an intelligent electorate
who will not be browbeaten
by our dear leader’s ridiculous opinions
on the matter.

This will not stand,
what he has done,
and I don’t know about you,
but I hope he never shows his face
back here again.
If he does,
I don’t know
if I can guarantee his safety.

Did you wake up with the sun this morning?
I did.
Not because I had to;
I just did it.
Does that make me a better person than you?
Yeah, it probably does.

Now, I’m not one to brag
about my amazing communion with nature
while you were probably fast asleep
dreaming of a more enlightened life.
It would be cruel
to expect you to live up to my example
but perhaps
knowing how it can be done,
starting the day with cocks,
that
could give you something to strive for.

Someday, perhaps,
you can be like me
and have some jerk’s car alarm
jolt you awake
right around four,
and then get into a gallon of mint cookie dough
mixed with a liter of Jolt,
proving that your day
is already well under way.

Someday, that is,
you know,
if you’re lucky.

Yes, sure, you were right.
Snopes, Wiki and About dot com,
they all agree with you, not me.
There is no such thing
as split beer
and apparently,
I was mistaken.

In retrospect,
I’m not sure what I was thinking.
What could split beer have possibly meant?
Something about going Dutch at a bar?
A barley process that I,
As a teetotalitarian,
know nothing about?
I haven’t the foggiest.

So you got me.
You win the bet.
I owe you a debt
and will never speak of this split beer again.
Now if you’ll excuse me
I’m gonna split
and go to the bar.

Hey…

When your pants split
– like the crotch seams just
completely disappear –
early on in the afternoon
and you’ve still got a lot of things to do
so you go about your plans
fully aware that the only thing
separating your id
from the world
is the button on your boxers

and you see a girl you really like
– you know,
LIKE like –
and there’s a stiff breeze coming by
just as you hug her
and your anxiety about that moment
is that keeps certain aspects of your interest
from taking control of the moment
so you’ve got to leave her
before things get super awkward

and you head to the park
to chill out
but you can’t lie down
else every one’ll see your underwear
and you can’t sit on the benches
since the kids are playing there
and if they or their parents
see the state of your pants
you might get arrested
and you think about going to the outdoor gymnasium
but that’ll wreck your clothes even further

and you didn’t realize
that your quality of wardrobe
would impact on so many aspects
of your day
and you kind of want to rectify the situation
but even going into a quality clothing store
might get you immediately escorted out
so you consider buying a skirt
or a gigantic overshirt
or a needle and thread
or some bull clips
and then you realize that now your whole day is about pants
so you might as well just go home
and so you do?

My day’s been a little bit
like that
metaphorically speaking.

I’m dreadful sorry, Bob,
for never remembering your name
from one time to the next.
I may have told you my name seven times
before I recognized the disgust in your eyes
with each subsequent introduction.
I stopped asking after a while, Steve,
since it clearly wasn’t doing any good
in getting to know you and anyway,
the damage had already been done.

I should have made a stronger effort.
I could have tried mnemonics.
I would have stenciled it on my forearm
if I weren’t Jewish
and had ever considered it.

Hank, I did you a disservice,
treating you as less memorable
than you no doubt were.
You deserved more attention and respect from me,
I’m certain.
I could have invested enough
in your identity
so that, even all these years later,
after constant repetition and information-collection,
I should finally be able to put together
who the hell you are,
but still: nothing.

Anyway, sorry.

She asks about the scratches and bruises
found too often
on too many parts of my person.
I can’t explain them
and not in a “my wife must never know” way.
I seem to never know
what my body’s gotten itself up to.

How have I hurt myself?
I can never say.
My body’s history
remains a complete mystery to me.

I worry a bit
about the distinct chance of sleep walking
or midnight transformation
into mummy sea creature
or possible possession.
I don’t know what I’ve done
but in this global village
anything imagined
can likely be enacted.

I believe I have done nothing wrong.
I hope nobody had been hurt
by my hand.
I pray that I don’t bleed tonight.

Look, Kelly,
I’m worried about what you’re doing
and the consequences
that may ensue.
Take care of yourself.
You’re much too fast.
You need to find a way
to make the parts you have last
until your next tuneup,
whenever that may be.

You’re falling apart, Kell.
It’s all going wrong
and if you don’t rest,
relax, regenerate,
your hit points may go down to nil
and that’s all she wrote, yo!
Take a break.
Take it easy.
Take five.

Kelly, for real, though:
if you keep leaning on that leg
you may lose it.
I don’t know how much it can stand
– or you, afterwards.
Seriously, what if you die of foot?
What if they have to take it off
and replace it
with some prosthetic
out of Tarantino?

Admittedly, you’d look pretty cool
with a guitar leg.
Just bend it and play
some sort of solo.
That might be worth it,
after all.
All right.
As you were.
In fact,
let’s do some jumping jacks!