jonberger

A kid said I touched her.
I did not
not intentionally
not to my knowledge
not at any point in the short time
I had known her.

I tried to imagine
what she was referring to
what she was thinking of
what she might mean
when she said I’d touched her
but I was afraid to talk about it,
fearful I might be seen somehow
as trying to lead the witness,
so to speak.

I could never even understand what
specifically
I was supposed to have done.
Was it an inappropriate place
or an inappropriate kind of action
or at an inappropriate time
when no one else was around?
What exactly was supposed to have happened
and what exactly was I supposed to have done?

There were never any answers provided
not were any charges brought
but I made sure to never spend time
with that particular kid again.

Probably
she did exactly the same.

I’m gonna figure it out.
I’m gonna find the hack.
However long it takes
I am going to get my hands
on the cheat sheet to your heart.

I’m gonna learn the secret language.
I will figure out the special code.
I am going to work out what it is
that will unlock your black box
and allow me access
to all your hidden toys.
I will learn about whatever it is
you have hidden
and I will find its locations
and unearth them.
It? Whatever.

I am interested
in your history
an your processes
and your thoughts
and I will know them all.
I will collect your data
by any means necessary.
I will have you
completely
once I’ve gotten my hands on
the cheat sheet to your heart.

Love is dead
and I am alone.
I thought she liked me
despite my being weird
but I think it’s clear now
that she tolerated me
AND I am weird.

I think I drank too much tonight
in the hopes of impressing her
but it just let my freak flag fly
even higher.

I am awkward.
I am lame.
I am sorrow and shame personified today.
Hours before
I felt on top of the world.
What a difference a smile makes.
What a difference a quick word makes.
What a difference her attention makes.

I am mawkish.
I am sad.
I am lame.
I am repetitive, derivative
and less than I used to be.
I am all wrong
and weird
and love is dead.

I don’t know if it’s the drugs
or mid-grade paranoia
or if it’s just my time of the month,
but I’m getting the sense
– my intuition tells me –
that you’re sick of me
or not thinking about me at all
which maybe might be worse.

You seem curt
and you’re ignoring me
turning away when I enter a room.
Are you playing hard to get
or are you playing REALLY hard to get, like
you don’t want me to ever get with you?
I suspect the latter.

I wish you would tell me outright
but then
if you simply don’t know me
could not recognize my face in a lineup
my questions would seem pretty foolish,
no?
I don’t know.

I don’t know what to do.
I wish you liked me
like I’d like you to
but my intuition
tells me otherwise.

I guess I’ve been thinking of love as transactional
hoping that I I have something material to offer
I can be repaid in affection.
I’m probably thinking this way
because I can’t imagine
anyone wanting me
for me.

I’m not the most pleasant bulb in the book
or sweetest trick in the barn.
Also
my metaphors are for shit.
Why would that
be attractive
to anyone at all?

I’m not asking for pity
or false praise
or any other reaction that is forced
by my shamed admissions
but I do want love
and I’d willing to pay for it
with money or time
or affection
or even in the currency of pain,
if that’ll work.

I’m ready to trade
with whatever I have.
Will you consider
or possibly suggest some other bargain
I have yet to imagine?

What you need is some confidence, you moon-eyes moron.
I don’t know why
this is so especially hard
for you to piece together.
If you can find your way
to believe in your talents and wit,
your personality,
your kind soul,
if you have faith in yourself
maybe somebody else would, too.
Probably, everyone would.

The concept is pretty basic
and you’ve always seemed
like a kind of clever dude,
so for fuck’s sake,
how is this so beyond you?
Why don’t you get it?

Assume that you deserve something,
idiot,
and maybe it’ll come along.
I mean, it might,
if you act like you deserve it.
It could.
For Christ’s sake, why not try?

It’s so tiresome,
seeing you sell yourself short
listening to your woe-begone state
month after year after fracking decade.
Your stories are redundant
and you have the tools
to change it
at a moment’s notice.
You can fix it right now
if you – dammit.
You’re doing it again.
GODDAMNIT.
All right, that’s it.
This is a fucking lost cause.
Good luck.

The day Connie died
was much like any other:
the sun rose
the alarm chimed
the coffee percolated
the train ran late
– nothing out of the ordinary really.
It was a day like many others
the day Connie died.

Mr. Rosen didn’t notice
that I’d snuck in half past
because he doesn’t pay attention
to much of anything.
If I go a week
without providing any deliverables,
no one complains.
It’s a pretty sweet gig
if you keep your head down.

I went out for a smoke around eleven
even though I quit five weeks back.
I just wandered the block
looking for things to see
like the monkey peddler at the corner
and the gypsy whores somewhere before.
By the time I got back to the office
it was lunchtime
so we all gathered ’round the wooden table
and chowed down.
Mr. Rosen asked if anyone had any news
and Sally hemmed and hawed
about her research on the humor of Hemingway
and Jackie Brown made a joke
about "killing the man, Joe."
Nobody laughed.

We got back to work
later in the afternoon
and I did a solid twenty three minutes
before getting antsy
so I went on walkabout.

When I got back
I heard that Connie had died
in a grizzly fashion.
Everybody was shaken,
including me
because I didn’t know anything about it
at all.
It was a total surprise to me
when I heard about it
back in the office.

I hunkered down
until evening
then at the crack of five
went straight home
for a nice Chianti
and thoughts about Connie.
Pretty typical,
like I said.

Alibi?
What’s that?

If she doesn’t want you,
then she doesn’t want you
and there’s nothing
you can do about it.
There is no willing it
into existence
or debating the point,
berating her into submission
or even asking her
again and again
and again and again
to change her mind.
If the chemicals of romance are not in place
then that’s all she will ever write
on the subject – ever.

There is no drugging her
nor brainwashing
nor any chance of committing tricks or treasons
to prove your devotion
and convince her of the rightness of your cause.
These are fundamental biological issues
and there is no recourse
if Slot A and Tab B don’t fit.
Just acquit yourself honorably
and move on to a better match.
Look for one, at least.

If she doesn’t want you
shrug it off.
Walk it off.
Sigh
and shove off.
Really, just back off
and leave her alone
if she doesn’t want you.

…but what if she’s playing…?

I had the most extraordinary experience
just the other night:
I was at a comedy show,
a free comedy show
featuring amateur comics
on a Sunday night
at a no-cover club.
The acts were
untried.
One of them
featured a creepy dude
who talked about murder
and kidnapping with just a hint of rape
in the crudest and rudest of forms.
I have seem better acts

but the audience loved him.
They laughed at every half-mutterance
he came up with
– and the mutters were many.
Now,
the crowd was mostly male
and white
and the crowd was mostly comics
and the crowd, to be honest,
was mostly drunk by this point in the evening,
but the applause was palpable.
They seemed to genuinely love
this horrifying act
and while, for a moment,
I thought this represented
the forced lobotomization of America,
I ended up with a different takeaway:

Even the creepiest
the most awful among us
can find a home
if he looks hard enough.
Even the worst of us all
can brainwash a solid few
to adore him.

This is a lesson
I wish I had learned earlier
rather than trying to hide
my hideous face from you
for so long.
I am sorry it took me this many years to learn
but I am glad to discover at all
that I can find my people
no matter how bad I am.

Everyone is horrible
but it doesn’t matter:
we’re all monsters now.

I think
of all the clubs
I used to frequent as a youth
yours was the worst:
the worst atmosphere
the worst attitude
the worst service
and the worst treatment of the artists.
Just, in general,
pretty much the worst.

I don’t really blame you.
Someplace had to be at the bottom
and your club took the position
with aplomb,
elan, and some curious level of enthusiasm.
You seemed to treasure your spot
at the nadir.

Only the most desperate acts
would continue coming back
and the most naive of high schoolers
would drink the watered down swill
your surly bartenders served.
Your staff was never happy
and, though the waitresses’ outfits
were slutty enough,
they’d never put out
(just another bait and switch
at The fucking Charles,
am I right?).

I remember band after band
complaining about getting stiffed
of their percentage at the door.
I remember friend after friend
complaining about getting their pockets picked
their credit cards lifted
their condoms poked through.
I remember girl after girl
not going home with me
night after night.
Christ, what a shithole.

Eat a dick,
The Charles.
I’m glad you’ve dead
and if my abandoning your club
had anything to do
with your eventual demise
then I think the universe owes me
some kind of thanks as well.