jonberger

Though you didn’t mean to
when we last spoke
you provided me a reading list
of the many articles I’d need
to understand you.
With those books under my belt
I will have found the means with which
to get us speaking the same language.

I’m not sure
that all the books were in English.
You used a lot of terms
that this bear of little brain
failed to recognize
but I have always been a quick study
except when I was not.

I will read up
on your likes and dislikes,
on the subjects
you expressed such interest in
and become as versed as I can be
in every single chapter.
I shall strive to struggle
to become fluent in you.

How surprised you’ll be
when I return to you
prepared to discuss and agree
with your every opinion!
How wonderful it shall seem
when we are at last on the same page
because I have memorized
every last bit of the text.

We are made of mistakes:
your father’s broken condom
my parents’ broken marriage.
A sprain, a heartbreak,
an error in accounting
that left me forced into a college
I hadn’t planned.
Our meetings and methods
are all based on accidents
that delivered us to one another.

We are all mistakes,
and not just us,
but everything around us.
All the world’s accomplishments
are based on the most colossal of fuckups.
Each and every revolution was born
from an abject earlier failure.

We are nothing but mistakes
and some muscles
and a twitchy smile
when I make a wrong turn
that gets us six hours off-schedule.
Just like everyone
I make mistakes.

Hey, all right.
I thought it was time
I give you one last chance
to go out with me.
This is the final offer;
after this
I’m done.
I’ll quit pursuing you.

It’s just tiring,
all the rejections,
and it’s time to establish
after all,
if you’re in any way down with JDB.
If you’re not,
I’ll know in no uncertain terms
(by estimate,
this will be my eighty eighth attempt),
and I’ll take the chance to move on,
find some other bird to prey on,
and express my considerable charm
in that other direction.

So
this is it.
My last chance, and yours.
What do you think?
Me? What do you say?
Eighty nine it is. OK.
Can’t blame a guy for trying.
Oh well.
So long.
See you tomorrow
for ninety.

When I was cruel
I said things
that I know I shouldn’t have.
I used words with you
so often
that were offensive and aggressive.
I didn’t mean to be mean
but I couldn’t find any other way to be
towards you
when I was cruel.

When I was cruel
I would question your ethics,
your intelligence.
I would argue about the proper placement
of all the paraphernalia
in your apartment.
I was just crazy with crushing questions
and would characteristically crash conversations
back when I was cruel.

When I was cruel
I was not sorry
for my sorry behavior.
I did what I had to
to survive
to thrive in alien environments.
I was bombastic and a boob,
being only a bastard
because I could think
of no other way to behave.

I was cruel.
I was callous.
I was calculating and conniving.
I don’t deserve forgiveness
nor shall I ask for it
but please know
that I know
how awful I was
when I was cruel.

I am not good at saying
“I love you.”
I believe it is the kind of phrase
that is overused
and underproven
but that’s not where my troubles end.
It is hard
for me
to let the words to come out.

One girl said those few words to me
after a couple of weeks
of intensity
and I only said, “I beat you to it,”
but did I?
I could but say it second.
I was unwilling
to place my head
on the block first.

I like to express my affection
while avoiding those dreaded syllables.
I want to show grand gestures
not simply say something
and nakedly await a response.
The latter
is far too scary.

Once,
I was involved
with Olive Juice Records
but no more.

Jack Gilford is dead
despite the fact
that he seems to be dining
right next to me.

Perhaps it is his son?
Perhaps I’ve gone on too many forums lately
and think myself informed
but in reality,
I simply don’t know Jack?

Perhaps I should finish my meal
and let Mister Gilford
dine in peace.
But instead of that
I decide to stare at him
from the corner of my eyes
and study him carefully
in case he does anything funny.

And if he does,
rest assured,
his waiter will hear something about it.

It stands to reason
that if time travel
will ever be invented
then time travel
will simply always have been around
throughout all of history.

So if time travel is ever to exist
it exists right now.
Which means
we really have to give it up
for Mrs. Hitler.

Klara Hitler
despite all the people
who hate her little boy
kept him safe
– keeps him safe –
from an army of future folk
who must keep coming back
down to the gay 90s
to off her little boy Addy.

Whatever the threat,
she kept him safe.
Whether his enemies used bullets
or poison
or even harsh invective to change
the course of human events
Klara protected her son
and he survived
to thrive
and allow history
to finally take its course.

So hats off to Mrs. Hitler
who did the seemingly impossible
in the face of an impossible technology
that she continues to ably defy.

The established statue
wants to get rid of Fearless Girl
because she upends the narrative
and makes him look look bellicose
beligerent
a force of danger.
So the fixture
wants to get rid of the disruptor
and return to the former status quo.

But
I don’t think Fearless Girl
is going anywhere
anytime soon.
She’s been facing folks
trying to tear her down
all along.
One more bullshitter
shouldn’t make much of a difference.

I wonder if you’re any different
than you were before the change
because I really like who you are now
and now
I’m very curious if the you today
is an improvement over the you of yesterday.
You’re probably in no position to judge
for an outsider
which version of you is the improvement
and now I fear
I may never know.

I like what you’ve become
a great deal
but I can’t help but ask
if I’m being shortchanged
and whether I should have met you
some time back.

Maybe your mother has some insight
as to which you is best.
Or your music teacher
in high school.
Or some boys that you dumped
or a former doctor.
Do you think we could arrange some meetings?

Don’t worry too much
about the infant’s screams
even if they echo off the high ceilings
of the church.
The Priest may look at you funny
(which is strange,
since, really, after all,
it’s the child he’s got a problem with)
but though the noise
may be fearsome
and indeed, sound tiresome,
it also has its place
on this day of solemn occasion.

The colicky child
or the hungry one
or just the kid who’s a little cranky
piercing through the eulogy
tells the tale
of the cycle of life
or life after death,
if you prefer.
The howls of youth
combat the silence of sickness
and offers proof
that life flows
even on dire days.

So we missed a few words at the funeral.
So what?
Quiet will claim us all eventually.
Let the baby holler.