We walked the night
bottles shared
circling the park
with no destination
and nowhere to go.
We were unexpected
free, at liberty.
We bellowed, frightened,
excited by newfound freedom
adventuring in our small way
singing loud well past light.
The shadows, ominous
loomed large
protecting the moon from our gaze
as we walked on
lost to the night.
With dawn
we saw society reemerge
and found destinations appear
and our lives
returned to some semblance
of order.
The photographs you’ve taken of me
are, to be honest,
not very good.
You can’t seems capture the essence of my character,
the firm resolve in my eyes,
the wonderful wit in my chest hair.
In each and every shot I’ve seen
in your portfolio
you present me as a flabby,
flatulent fuckwit with little heroism
in his soul
but lots and lots of chins
all over his body.
How do you do that?
I don’t know if this is a matter
of composition or lighting
or not knowing your subject well enough
but I’ve found the results of our photo shoots
really dispiriting.
Do you think I might look thinner
in black and white?
Well, I can’t do it now,
can I?
I know I’m not good with the signals
and I’m slow to move
and I’m something of a tentative coward
but really
if I just do what you say
because you say so
what does that make me
but, I guess,
a stupid slow tentative coward?
What was I saying?
I may have lost the thread here.
OK, here it is:
If I first kiss you
just because you commanded me to,
not only does that kill the romance of the moment,
but it sets the precedent
of me only acting in service to you
and while I am very enthusiastic
to service you,
I don’t want you to see me
simply as your servant.
If we are gonna have any legs
or arms or fingers or toes
I need to be able to take some initiative
so even if I missed the organic opportunity
to lay one on you,
I still need to strive
to find a way
to get up the nerve
to give you some tongue.
I have to do it on my own terms
even though I’m really aching to
and you’ve given me the go-ahead and
now?
I should now?
All right, already!
I speak for the mute.
I dance for the crippled.
I sing for the tone-deaf.
a community I am all too familiar with.
I stink for the noseless,
I kill for the peaceful
and jam for those without the ability
to organize a group
with which to improvise.
I work for others
in all ways at all times.
Am I selfless?
Yes, maybe: for the selfish
and I’m heroic for cowards.
I do math for the unaccountable
and I read to the elderly
because I’m a pretty cool guy
– for the modest!
What am I getting at?
Am I everything everyone should ever be,
righting society’s wrongs
with my own wicked wit
and strong right arm
or left
or maybe my particularly toned calves?
Who can say?
Probably me
because I speak for the voiceless
or the mute
or whatever I said previously
(I never said I did a damned thing
for Alzheimer’s victims).
We were supposed to be asleep
but he hadn’t closed our door
when he put us down
and his snores shook the windows.
He was out of it
far more deeply than we
possibly because of the Mad Dog.
He didn’t notice when we dipped his fingers
or removed his shoes
and he didn’t notice
when we wrote pedophile
on his forehead with a magic marker.
We assume he noticed later
but we were back in bed by then
giggling
curious how long it would be
before Mom got enough courage
or cash
to convince another sitter
to dare to take us on.
The girl wants no help
climbing the tree
or riding the bike
or flopping sloppily
into the pool.
She can do these things
just fine on her own.
She can handle anything
this young world has thrown at her
and she’s ready to tackle
the next beasts independently
with ferocity
and full autonomy
She looks witheringly
at any who think they have anything to offer
and runs off scornfully
knowing she can outpace any boy
who tries to race her.
She seeks no aid.
She wishes for no help
throwing a stone
or taking a hit
or climbing a tree
but I remain near
on the off-chance
that she might fall.
I still regret
not asking for your number
but had I done so
I’d probably have left a dozen messages by now
randomly asking how you were,
what you were doing,
when you were available
for us to get together
– in a purely platonic way,
of course.
I’d have texted interminably,
attempted cutesy strategies
to leave you thinking of me,
wondering how fun it would be
to stay in my sphere.
I’d have sent you poems
emojis and GIFs
– which I would have made a point
not to pronounce
so as to avoid
that entire potential kerfuffle.
I would have memorized your number
by now,
I’m sure,
if I’d asked for it
and you provided it.
And I’d be struggling to forget it
after you told me it was all too much
too soon
and you were looking for less involvement,
for less of me.
If I’d have asked for your number
I’d probably be exactly where I am right now
so: no regrets.
This
is a beautiful day
in a beautiful part of the world
where a lovely dog is licking
my salty hand
before heading off on her own
to find whatever adventures she can
on the expansive grounds.
This is a good life
right now
with little weighing on my mind
other than mortality
loneliness
and existential terror.
Why can’t every day
be like this one?
Oh: Limited resources.
Poverty.
Vandals.
Illness
Death.
Isolation.
Anxiety.
Shit.
Today sucks.
I just looked up this dick
from my junior high school
who once stole my homemade lunch
and then complained about the quality.
He wasn’t a bully or anything
just a little dick
and I wanted to make sure
that his life didn’t amount to anything
which would be appropriate karma
for that lunch thing.
But it looks like he turned out to be
a very major player
as a modern model citizen
who’s gotten involved
in positive PR projects
and is even seeking to influence my parents’ neighborhood
for the greater good.
Evidence points to this guy
having grown out of his childhood assholery
an into a pretty cool dude
which makes me…
I don’t know.
I’m glad, I guess?
That it worked out for the best?
Still
I won’t share his name.
I can’t out him for the hero he is
because he dissed my leftovers back in the day
I’d really been looking forward
to that lunch.
I get that you might hate me.
I can’t say I blame you
but I can’t help
but think you should be thanking me, too.
I’m giving you story value, see.
How often have you heard
“Once upon a time
nothing happened.
The end”?
I’m saving you from that.
I am the something
that propels the story forward.
Someone’s got to do it.
I’m not a photographer;
I don’t paint with light.
I paint with pain,
with adversity,
with the contrast
between what you hope for
and what you hate.
I’m helping you
to find a life more appreciated
one well worth living.
And at the end of it
when you look back on your misadventures
and all the things you regret,
I may be high on that list
but even in those last days
you’ll still be thinking of me.
So you’re welcome
for helping to structure your life
into one worth retelling.
jonberger 