jonberger

Bruce Springsteen chortles.
Joseph Heller sounded like some borscht belt immigrant.
Truman Capote spoke in that faggy dog-pitched voice.
Heroes don’t always sound the way you want.

You won’t always sound the way you want
or act the way you want
or be.
When the push hits the shove
and you have to do or die,
you may die
and though cowardice may not be
the thing that actually kills you,
it might as well.

These may not be the thoughts
you meant to find
in this particular work
but what you expect
and what you receive
need have no association with each other.
The movie you wanted was sold out;
this is what was left.
This
is what you get.

Let’s see
if it makes sense this way:
This
is a lemon.
There is no more pulp
to squeeze.
There is no juice
left at all.
We have gotten all we can
in terms of liquid
from this lemon.
There is nothing left to squeeze
and – yes,
there is a rind.
I suppose you could scrape
something of value from the skin,
but… OK,
let’s try again.

This rock
right here
this is calcified and beaten down
after millennia on this green earth.
It is hard as…
well, as stone.
If you squeeze this,
you will find no –
all right. Yeah,
you could shatter the stone.
You could try to get
beneath its exterior
to understand what more
there is to exploit.
But don’t you see that –
never mind.
Moving on.

There is a horse
right over there
that has fallen.
The filly has flown.
She’s gone,
nothing more than a corpse.
If you beat her
– zombies? THAT’s where you’re going?
All right.
In the world of metaphor
I admit it’s conceivable
to reanimate a dead horse
for further beatings.
But the basic point is…
what I’m trying
to get you to see…

Yep.
All right.
Back to the drawing board.

So I’m surprised
this hasn’t come up before
but it’s going to be
a lot harder for you
to ever fall in love with me
if you never return my calls.

But maybe you have a different plan.
Maybe you plan to fall for me
through other means.
Maybe you’re thinking of us screwing
until we see something happen
between us.
I am all right with that plan

but I do want to know
what to expect
and you’re not providing much
in the way of tactics
as to how we will ever end up together.

So pick up the phone
or give me your real number
or whatever it is humans do
in this mating dance that we’re messing up so badly.
See? I can take responsibility, too.
I admit I have contributed well
to this reign of errors
in our nascent love.
But we both have to work at it
if anything is ever going change.

So?
What can we do? Oh:
I’m Jon, by the way.

I can’t believe you,
that you would reject me
in this most heinous way.
I offered to buy you a sandwich
of the finest meats and bread
and you reply
with a disinterested “I’ll think about it”?

“I’ll think about it”?
What the HOLY FUCK!
Coppanezzio’s kicks ass!
You don’t sleep on their sandwiches, lady!
I’m for a dry pastrami myself,
but I’ve heard rumors about the quality of their salami,
how the mustard is cultivated from the fattest seeds,
and their poppyseed hero rolls
serves some as a narcotic
(their lettuce is just iceberg,
but whatever).

I offer you a meal
at the finest sandwich shoppe
in the region,
and you rebuff me.
Rebuff!
Unbelievable.
Unacceptable!

You don’t know what you’re missing,
madam, this I swear.
The delicacy that could have been yours,
that is gone forever,
never ever to be experienced,
or until my fifty ninth offer
to take you out
– whichever comes first.

That’s it!
I’m through.
No longer will I just allow
these snide and sarcastic comments
to escape my lips.
I am sick to death of the bastard in my body
constantly needling,
getting under everybody’s skin
and leaving me hated and hateful
all over this town.
It’s over.
I’m done.
No more Mister Nasty.

I am not going to take
another minute of my bad behavior.
I’m turning a new corner
and not allowing me
to give any more shit
to anyone.
I’m turning over a new leaf
and abolishing all the old ways.
No more Mister Nasty.
I’m becoming nice.

You heard me.
I’m changing.
I’m improving.
I’m not gonna let anyone take my abuse
for one more day.
It’s over.
I’m through with the foul language,
the crude behavior,
the base assumptions
and racist rhetoric.
I’ve turned a corner
and I’m stopping the crap.

It’s a new year for me
and for everyone else
’cause that bully-boy batshit?
That’s done, you hear me?
Mister Nasty has left the building
and he doesn’t have the key to get back in.
It’s over.
I’m through.
So long, Mister Nasty!

I’m sorry that I stare
so obviously,
so frequently,
but I’ve been trying to understand
exactly what you are
and I think you’ve caught me
in a eureka moment.

I know you now.
You’re Weird Girl.
You like the creepy things:
insects and murder
and styles from olden days.
Everything about you is old-fashioned,
romantic and intriguing.
Beguiling, maybe.

Your band?
Where you play rhythm theremin?
What’re they up to now?71
Oh! A new eight-track release!
That’s new.
It’s called An Album Named Alex?
See? Weird Girl!

I’m not judging the idiosyncrasies.
In fact, I love them.
You may be generically quirky
but seeking to march to the tune
of your own tympani
is laudable
and I am so very glad to know you,
Weird Girl,
you weird Weird Girl.
I, by the way,
am Judgmental Jonny.

Well, I think I got it.
I understand what you’ve been meaning to say.
You don’t want me.
I’m pretty clear on that
now
but no matter what you say, suggest
or subtly insinuate,
I firmly believe
it wasn’t always this way.

You liked me once
– you did!
I could tell from your smile
your positioning in the room
the way you looked at me and referred to me…
I know that you had some interest.
Even this bear of little brain
could piece that much together.

I’m not smart enough to see what changed,
what I did or didn’t do
to get you to reverse course
or refuse to consider
what had surely seemed so promising before.
I don’t know if I changed perfume
or insulted your religion
or complained too loudly
when you bit me
splitting my lip.

But what seemed so meaningful
so recently,
that which had given days their spice
had vanished,
will-o’-the-wisp receded into the dark.
It is what it is
or was
or whatever.

I’ll miss you
and the opportunity to be
your interest initially presented
but I won’t miss my memories and hopes
of the possibility of an us.
They stay with me still,
your hints as allegations notwithstanding.

Watching his pain
that impotent frustration
as he cries in the corner
for no reason I can see
is nagging,
it’s a niggling feeling.
There is something I
can do for him
I’m sure
but I don’t know what.

I want to tell him
this too shall pass
that he won’t remember
what torments him today
in a few hour’s time
that no repercussions
will follow this pain
whatever may have caused it.

I want to belittle his suffering
so he knows
it’s all going to be all right
but I suspect that
will belittle him
and his tears will fall faster
when he thinks
that no one understands him.

I understand him;
I do.
I felt the same miseries
(I sometimes still do).
I want to ease his issues
but I have no strategies,
nothing that doesn’t feel
like a drop in bucket,
some lame cliche.

But cliches exist
for a reason
and perhaps
an expression of empathy
is all there is to offer.
So I say it,
"There there,"
and he tells me to fuck off
and for just a second
he’s escaped his hurt
and I feel like
it’s a job well done.

I should probably just admit it:
I’ve been having this whole secret relationship
without you ever knowing.
Yeah, it’s time
to come clean.
I’ve been pretty heavily involved
with you
without your permission.

When we’ve been out late
talking, drinking,
arguing about pacifism versus knives
I’ve even thinking of you
lovingly, imagining
when we’ll finally argue
about real issues,
like how many kids to have
and whose parents should pay for the wedding
(Hint: in my imagination,
yours usually wins
or loses,
depending on the POV).

When you walk away,
I am watching.
When you tell me stories,
I am taking notes.
I am paying attention to your opinions
far more seriously than you might think,
considering the focus
you throw my way.

And maybe that’s the thing.
The core of my admission
I think
is that our relationship
is far from reciprocal.
While you have been chatting with me
getting the drinks,
I have secretly been loving you.

I just thought you should know
about the relationship
you have been wholly unaware of
and to ask
that if maybe
you could tell our girlfriends,
that would be really great.

A word of advice, padwan.
The more you write anthems to your incompetence,
the more evidence
you provide to the world
of your exact insufficiencies.
You provide the haters clues,
your enemies a code sheet,
you offer all those who seek to doubt you
validation of their opinions.

Keep your fears quiet.
Keep your doubts to yourself.
Let no one know your weaknesses.
What can defeat you never need be said.
Be stoic and vigilant
and prepared to tell no soul
anything at all.

In this there is strength.
In silencing your weakness,
in hiding it from the sun,
you can make it wither.
Hidden from all
you can make your weakness die.