jonberger

Laser Jane, she impressed Wayne
and got applause from Steven Blaine.
If you can’t see, I’ll make it plain:
you’ll be blinded by Laser Jane.

If there’s a show you wouldn’t hate
it’s Laser Jane on twenty eight
-th of June, out in Red Hook.
It’s at Jalopy; take a look.

If you like your drinks of grain,
then get them there, with Laser Jane.
She’s the best of Ireland
and hopefully your new best friend.

Check out Laser Jane; she’s good
though clearly not from neighborhoods
near Brooklyn nor Manhattan
not nearby Island of Staten.

No, the girl’s from far away.
She’s super bright and hot as day.
She’ll cut you down, if you cross her
for Jane is much like a laser.

Anyway, this Laser Jane
has come to join us mortal main
and womain, too. She’s here and playin’.
So give a hand for Laser Jane.

Sometimes in the middle of a story
the characters get away from you
and though you meant to tell the tearful tale
of a motherless boy who does good
you end up in a thriller
where Little Orphan Anthony
kills Nazi mummies in Quebec.

Sometimes when writing your memoir
you recall an important anecdote
that doesn’t really fit your life story
(some incident of amphibian affection
or whatnot)
that must be excised
even though it totally explains
why you became an undersea adventurer
in the first place.

Sometimes you lose control
of the legends you lay.
Sometimes the fiction flies free.
Sometimes the plot gets rewritten
under your hand.
Sometimes the script gets flipped.

Sometimes the muse controls you.
Well, the muse controls you always,
but sometimes,
she allows you to see the strings
– or the stage markings
– or the teleprompter
– or the telepathic control inputs…

Sometimes,
the muse just abandons you
in the middle of the damned piece.

Do not curse the night
or its false promises
lest you see an enemy
that you can never defeat.
The night doesn’t see you
doesn’t care for you
so if she has done you harm,
rest assured, it was unintentional.

The night takes no notice of you
and if you believe
she has deceived you,
you are wrong;
it was never her.
She offers nothing at all
but a black canvas
that you can paint upon
with your imaginings
and desires
and faith in opportunities
she cares nothing for.

The night will never betray you.
The night will never look to you.
The night will never fight you
so perhaps
it you do choose to damn her
it means naught
but a cry in the dark.

I want to be understanding
and tolerant
and accept the diversity of the human condition
but frankly
it’s hard to stomach
the behavior you endorse.
I simply cannot accept it.
My understanding
and patience are limited.

Yes, your fetish is legal
and everyone is more accepting
of individual peccadillos these days
but I just can’t get behind it.
Sure, what you like
needn’t be the same
as what everybody else wants
and you have every right to it
but I can’t help
seeing it as shameful.

You cannot like my body,
this horrid misconstructed thing.
It is rotund.
It is abhorrent.
That you might be attracted
to all that I’ve got
is beyond surprising.
It is beyond the pale.
It borders on obscene.

Lusting after this
is wrong.
You must want me despite
my corporeal form,
not because of it.
Anything else is
just disgusting
and until you can see to agree
I am afraid
that you and me can never be.

The place you took me
that one time?
I haven’t been able to find it.
I’ve been looking for it
a lot, but
I’ve had no success, really.
Was it on a corner?
Did that outside seating
have its own exit?
I’m at a loss.

I’ve been using
all my boy detective skills
but it hasn’t gotten me any closer
to any conclusions.
Had I only paid with a credit card
or left behind breadcrumbs
or spent time looking at something other than you
or had fucking asked for your number
this would be a lot easier.
I might already be in that place
– it was a bar, right?

Anyway,
I might be close right now
but I can’t be sure.
I wish I could ask you about it, but
you know.

Maybe around the next corner…

Yes, I have heard tell
of the concept of which you speak.
I’m quite familiar
with the reputation
of this thing called self-respect.
I don’t believe I care for it.
Seriously, the idea
of treating yourself
as if you are worthy?
Putting your needs
ahead of those of others?
That doesn’t sound particularly Jesusian
you know?

I understand the principle:
act like you’re deserving
and others will believe
that you’re deserving.
But that requires you
to A) be selfish
(it’s right there in the term
SELF-respect),
and B) do what’s right
rather than doing
what makes you happy.

Yes, I could
insist on getting the pay
that I deserve
or stop talking to the lover
who treats me wrong
but then I’m jobless
and loveless
and, of course,
none of the waste baskets
end up getting emptied.

If everyone acted
in terms of self-respect
half of what needs getting done
would not.

So I understand the theory.
I appreciate the hypothesis, but
I do not believe
I shall subscribe to this concept.
Self-respect just doesn’t fit in
with my current goals.

There are days
when life seems awful
and there’s nothing I can hold on to.
It’s on those days
I sit and do the work.
The work becomes my mantra
and my meaning
and my mainline, too.
I leave my thoughts behind
and do the work.

I do the work
for self-improvement.
I do the work,
for come what may,
the work might make me whole.
So I work.

If the women
or the whiskey
or unwilling friends
all get me down,
I put them all behind me.
In front? The work.
Though smiles escape me,
if I’m working,
I never think to frown.
All else is forgotten but the work.

The work is my redemption.
Yes! The work will make me strong.
I need nothing else to guide me
but the work.
I will work, then,
early and often,
so I can be complete.
I have faith in nothing but the work.

If you find yourself
in times of trouble
that no one in the world can see,
focus on what’s important.
Do the work.
Through hours of concentration,
salvation comes on bended knee.
The work helps us forever.
It’s what works.

Just do the work.
That’s all that matters.
Do the work;
ignore all else.
When the world seems shocked and awful,
do the work.
The work is our salvation.
The work is what we need.
The work breeds satisfaction.
So… work.

You were the incredibly hot
yet surprisingly short waitress
at my favorite place on Sixth Street.
I was the customer
in the crisp white button-down…
or is it button-up?
Either way: I asked
if the BBQ pork sandwich was messy
because of the shirt
and you said
“No, no”
and, looking deep
into your low-cut blouse,
I believed you knew
what you were talking about.

The sandwich was messy, though,
and my sparkling, clean,
just-opened shirt
became a crime scene canvas
and I had to cancel my afternoon meetings
because I was a mess.

I’m sorry that your tip
didn’t reflect your beauty
but deducting the cost of the shirt
would have left you owing me money.
In fact, you probably do owe me a shirt.
Come to my place
and hand me that blouse
and maybe we’ll call it even.

Your favorite band
just asked for your autograph.
They want to know what it is
that you like about them
and they’re really interested
in what you have to say.

They’re considering a new direction
and they’re looking for
the right kind of feedback
from the right kind of fans,
of which you are their best and biggest.
Your favorite band
just asked to buy you a drink.

Your favorite band
is calling you
their favorite person
since they’d be nothing without you,
both in general,
as a representative of their fanbase,
and in specific,
as a perceptive and appreciative listener.
They want to know you
and they want you to like them
as much as they like you
for liking them.

This Is the way
it always goes.
This is how
all artists treat their audience
but none more so
than your favorite band.

I was being nice.
I was being polite.
I took you home
because you seemed so lonely,
so desperate,
so sad.
I let you have all this
because I couldn’t bear
to hurt your feelings.
I fucked you
out of kindness.

You looked just all right
but you really seemed
really upset, like
you needed a break
and I was pretty high,
so I offered you
those special parts
I always meant to save for marriage.
No big deal, though.
I did you a favor.
Maybe someday
there will come a time
where you will do one for me.

I gave you that night
because I thought
it would help you out, but
it seems you’re still pretty upset.
Sorry.
Is there anything I could do
to make you feel better?