jonberger

Where have all the Tad’s Steaks gone?
We went there sometimes
after school
for a meal of meat
we could well afford.
I would try to get everyone to go
far more often
than they seemed to want.

Perhaps my friend group
represented the general disinterest
in the steakhouse chain.
Perhaps that is why
cheap steak is no longer available in midtown.
Perhaps Tad’s is part of a bygone age
like my high school
and my former waistline.
It is indeed strange
how, as meals got more expensive,
I became capable
of consuming many more of them.

In any case,
my trips to Tad’s Steak restaurants
are few and far between
just as Tad’s themselves are.

In the throes of last night
amongst the drinks and dinner
I vaguely recall
part of a dangerously earnest conversation.

Let me first apologize for anything
honest I might have admitted.
We can assume
in the stark light of day
that whatever I may have stated
can simply be ignored.

We don’t have to go over the specifics.
It may be, in fact,
easier that way.
Let us simply work under the supposition
that all curious phrases
potentially proffered
over the course of the throes of the night
are now null and void
and need never be repeated.

Can we do that,
do you think?
Can we exercise discretion
while exorcising all memories
from the recent past?
I would very much appreciate it
and will speak no further words
ever again
about last night.

You know that thing
where you’re a little proud of
some kind of an accomplishment
but it’s really a kinda small accomplishment
that if you tell anyone about it
you’re just opening yourself up
for humiliation
since it was the kind of thing
most people figured out
at around four years old?

Or maybe
there’s something that’s bothering you
a pretty petty thing, actually,
the kind of thing that
if you mention it to anyone,
anyone would just say
“why are you such an asshole?”
Like say
how annoyed you are at how much
your damn kids ask to be fed
and wouldn’t it be better
if you could just sew their damn lips shut?

So you keep your own damn lips shut
for fear of outing yourself
as the monster you really are
but you wonder if the silence,
the desire to keep it all in
and keep everyone else out
will just make your soul fester and boil over
with some toxic black tar
and you are practically ready to explode
smiting the neighbors’ dog
or anyone else choosing to make any sound whatsoever
anywhere on your plane of existence?

It’s
it’s that kind of a thing.

Can you guys just cut the shit
and admit that you’ve split up already?
I respect your privacy and all
but the tension between you
is something thick,
dark and ridiculous.

The stink of death on your relationship
is pretty potent, too.
I don’t know what caused the carnage
but there’s something broken here.
I can sense it.
Something’s up.

I don’t need the details.
I just want the information
so I can better understand
the terrain on which we tread.
I must get a handle on the state of your love
so I know what to call you guys in the future
and I can decide
which of you to ask out first.

Take the stupid solace that you can
that it could be worse
that the suffering will end
that there may well be
some better world to head to
after this one
– even without NASA’s half-assed help.

Swallow the insipid bromides
of peace and love and joy and faith
and believe
that soon enough
everything will work out for the best.
Accept what fucking panacea is offered
and get some use from it
for the time being, at least,

Find some relief
if you can
from the fact
that this is the human experience
that we all share
and that
as alone and miserable as you feel
it is one of the core things
that conjoins you
with the rest of us,
that your current suffering
makes you more a member
of the shared community.

It’s all bullshit, sure,
but maybe
it’ll get you through the night.

Yes, and there may come a day
when you may walk down a lonely road
thumb out
hoping for answers in this country
as you define just who you might be.
You may see beautiful houses
next to shotgun shacks
with large automobiles
displacing rocks and stones.
You may hope for a ride
far more than you seek your destination.

As you’re off by the tall grass
seeking America in far-off factories
past neighbors’ lights,
the highway might breathe before you.
The land seems full of opportunities
with people just waiting to talk to you.
You will learn much from this America,
not all of it pleasant.

For in time
in your travels
you may discover roadblocks
and secret grave sites
near sounds of gunfire.
You may see ghettoes and schools
where wartime is all the time.
It may be rough
but you must continue walking
heading toward whatever truth
you may find
around you and within you.

This is your quest.
This is your country.
This is your life.

You were the It Couple
the center of attention in your little scene
the eye of the storm.
You two were the rage
everyone wanted to get all up into.
Y’all were important
for about a minute.

You were Johnny and June
Jen and Brad
or Jen and Ben
or Ben and Jen foreva,
and frankly,
everybody wanted to be you
or be with you.

Where’d it go?
What happened?
Did you fail to live up
to all the expectations
or did you not care at all about what we thought?
Were you even a couple at all
or were you just good copy?

Did your love break down
because you were just a couple of kids
too mixed up for your time,
or were you two simply too pure for the world,
too glorious and precious to survive
down in the mud with the rest of us?

The old dog sees me coming close
and struggles to get up.
I reach down to pet him
and he shakes to his feet
shambling away from me
searching for a better place to rest
in peace.

I am sorry, old dog,
for disturbing your quiet time.
I only wanted to offer
some kind of comfort.
Clearly
you were doing fine
all by yourself.

You have a job
and you have your orders
and you have a need
to keep the peace
but watch what you’re doing.
Be careful what you say
and be wary what you do
for the old shriveled man loitering on the boulevard
may have heralded the 60s
or something.
The addled geriatric ambling your streets
could always be Bob Dylan.

Treat the people with respect.
Push no one around.
Assume everyone deserves
a modicum of doubt
and pretend that every cracked figure
out of place
in the out-of-the-way
might have some reason to be there.

Do your job.
Follow orders.
Keep the peace
but know
every stranger could be someone special
and every wandering pilgrim
could just be a prophet.

The morning is bright
and the sunlight burns
and the dawn too close
to be a pleasant memory.
The lamppost asks
“Don’t you want somebody to trust?”
and I think about it
because there is a Don’t Walk sign ahead
with cars rushing before me as punctuation.

“I do,”
I say quietly to the essay on the lamppost,
“I want somebody to trust
to love
to shove me all over the place.
I want peace.
I want sex.
I want to be somewhere else for a while.
I want to get along
I want to go to Disneyland
I want to be your dog
– in that I want to piss all over you,
you fucking lamppost
with your fucking religious pamphlets
too fucking early in the ass-fucking morning.”

The light has changed,
barely visible with the sun behind it,
but I can make do
and so make my way due East
into the morning.