jonberger

I am walking in the shadows.
I am revisiting old haunts.
I sit alone
in diners
under full moons.
I wear the trench coat
and a blank face.
I seek to be mysterious,
though many could easily predict my next move.

I am living in tropes.
I walk, hunched,
a cliche.
Echoing my footsteps
is a soundtrack of lonely saxophone,
sad jazz accompaniment
through empty streets.

I am searching,
investigating something I cannot completely explain.
I am alone,
questing down darkened alleys
hoping to find something past midnight,
anything worth eating.

If I had to pick a favorite cat
it would be the cruel one,
the bitter one
who comes to you rarely when called,
and will at random
– but always within eight minutes –
nip at your stroking hand
before hurtling away
prior to any instinctive strike
I might make
from my now-bleeding paw.

I would choose the chaos creature
that will silently judge,
keeping quiet counsel from a distance
atop some perch
to better hunt those birds
that will never even enter her environment.
She will occasionally provide
the remains of a rat
as an unrequited token of esteem.

I will sit with the vicious one,
the sharp one,
the hard one,
taking pleasure in those rare moments
of softness
when she whims it.

He would always congratulate me
for how I could clear a room.
“I love how you just don’t give a fuck,”
he’d say to me
when, of course,
I cared quite a big deal.

He thought the ability to alienate
was laudable, even though I came by it
with no effort whatsoever.
I was not quite so impressed
with his skills.

I can still empty an audience
in no time flat.
He no longer compliments me for it
maybe because
he no longer comes to my shows.

Regina Spektor played here
and Michelle Shocked
and Nellie McKay and Kimya Dawson.
Platinum artists with multimillion-selling songs
have stood on this stage
and some of them
were stilted, awkward and ugly
in their performances.
Some not.

Greats have come and gone
took their at bat
and went down swinging.
Superlative superstars have suspended disbelief with what they did
under these lights.

There is a legacy you’re entering into here
with heroes and villains
going back scores of years
and scads of song.
Jeffrey Lewis.
Kirk Kelly.
Heather Eatman and John S. Hall
all these names were uttered meaningfully within these walls.
You’re in quite the space here
for this open mic
a room that has seen enough failures for many a scene.
No pressure.

Oh, is that so?
You didn’t mean to hurt me?
You had no intention
of letting the words you say
stray to my ears
informing me
of the very positions and ideas
that you STILL will not deny?
That is certaInly a relief.
That,
that is just
great.

No, it IS great.
It’s most excellent
that you had no plan to be hurtful.
That is simply wonderful.
It’s just that
whatever your intent
you seem so exceptionally able
to twist the blade
over and over
and you don’t even ever mean to.
Just imagine
how delightful it might be
if you ever got mad!
The mind reels…

Whatever your intent,
you were cruel.
Whatever little reasons you had
for what you did/said/scrawled on bathroom walls
doesn’t matter.
You had the thoughts.
You expressed them
and you think it’s some sort of saving grace
that you didn’t mean for me to hear them?

You can’t apologize
for what you said
because for you
it was true.
You can’t deny the intent.
You’re simply sorry
that you failed to disguise the truth.

What?
Oh, yes.
Of course I forgive you.
If that ends this conversation
I will forgive you
until the cows come home
kill humans
and grind us all into humanburgers.
Now what can I do
to end any further conversation
with you?

I think
if I just circle around the subject
a couple more times
I might be able to successfully communicate my thoughts.
Yeh, if I repeat myself
with enough oblique references
I might finally make a little sense.

I have a feeling
it’s an intuition, of course,
but I feel very strongly about it
that everyone will really get the manifesto
if I keep talking about it
even if the similes and metaphors I use
choose to change every single time
they get used.

I suspect
– hell, I’m sure of it –
that this time around
everyone will get it
– whatever it may be –
even if this is the eightieth iteration
of an attempted explanation.
It’ll all become clear
to everyone else
any day now.

I don’t want to just beat a dead horse
or flog a dying one
but I really want to see you again
and I’m not sure if that’s really in the cards.
I’m not getting much sense of reciprocation from you
and it might be because I’m so exceedingly bad at all this
and it might be all those very specific excuses you gave
while rejecting me those last six times.

But it might be
that you have no interest
and while I don’t like the sound of that,
like, at all,
I’d rather know
you won’t go out with me
than spend so much time
in this failed pursuit.

I haven’t asked you outright
but is it all right
if I ask you out?
Are you ever gonna say yes
or should I go out into the cold
away from you?

To my neighbor at the laundromat
who took the still-wet clothes
out of my dryer
and left them to mildew on the counter for three hours:
there is a thing called politesse
in our society,
in which citizens look out
for the needs of one another.
It is because of this politesse
that we share a language
a common core of beliefs
and a desire to improve one another’s lives.

You have betrayed
that presumed sense of politesse.
You have done some small part
in severing the lines of civility
that keep our common culture stable.
Your behavior is that sort that threatens us
to the very core,
leaving our walls and gates
open to the barbarian horde.

You are a monstrosity
upon the skin of the earth
and you must be picked
and isolated and then sent
to camps for reeducation
and probably decomposition.

It is in the spirit of such assessment
that I put a match to your clothes
so that they could dry even faster.
Let the smoldering remains of your wardrobe
show you how enlightened people behave
within civilization.

You’re welcome.

I’m sorry.
I’m sure your brownstone is super nice
and the three floors are incredibly spacious
and the party was sublime
with all the right crackers and wine
but I just couldn’t get my ass
onto the PATH
to reach your part of the world.
I didn’t have it in me.
There was a body of water to cross,
after all.

And yes, sure,
Manhattan is an island
and a body of water is involved to get anywhere
(including halfway clean),
but it’s not like we’re in the same state
or commonwealth
or whatever you call it
on your side of the Hudson.
Jersey, right.
Of course you’d call it New Jersey.

Anyway, I would have had to pay
for an entire different means of transportation.
The PATH isn’t part of the MTA
– it is?
A MetroCard, just like everything else?
Oh. Whatever.

The important thing is,
I swear,
I will come visit you
out in Jersey City one of these days.
It’s impossible to avoid.
Any day now,
I promise.

Tuesday? Can’t.
All of next week is out.
Next month, too.
Look, let’s just put a pin in it for now,
all right?
See you next week at my place!

I wish I met you
before I knew better.
I wish I’d first seen you
before I was woke.
I wish I had knowledge of you
before I found wisdom
and understanding
and I got
just how much damage a taste of you
would do to a wastrel like me.

I wish I had gotten a chance
to experience you
before I had to cut out such experiences
and keep the crazy in my life
to the absolute bare minimum.

I wish I hadn’t gotten too smart
to limit danger
and dangerous influences.
I wish I was still young enough
to think you wouldn’t tear me up
break me down
send me to some burning deep.
I wish I didn’t know any better
or could forget
long enough to regret every minute of the ride.