jonberger

Robert Klein
(the comedian?)
had a bit in the seventies
where he was selling all the records
in the world
ever made.
It was one of those late night box set ads
in the joke
only it was funny
because it was all the history
of recorded sound
made available at once.
The bIt was humorous
presumably
because it was so damned absurd.

Robert Klein does not tell the joke
anymore.
Also
he doesn’t record albums
maybe because nobody buys albums anymore
or maybe
because his material is so dated.

When the robots take my job
I hope they at least leave my benefits.
In fact, after all the jobs are tooken,
I would like to think the robots-that-be
will be prepared to provide a robot in every pot
so each individual fleshy citizen
will have the tools to succeed
in this modern America.

Without a robot to do my laundry
to wash my flowers
to sing me to sleep
and to take in my cats,
how will I be expected to survive?
I will need the technology
to keep up with the other indigent,
unemployed, semi-literate losers
populating the biosphere.
I will need a robot
to keep me whole.

So I should expect
when the Mechanical Party
starts drumming up support
they intend to keep their promises
and make humanity great again.

I must thank you
for what you have done for me lately.
You’ve liberated my spirit
and provided me with inspiration
to last for weeks and weeks
(months, maybe).

You’ve given me something to live for
even if it’s only some slight form of revenge
as I stay up nights
thinking about how you’ve crushed my soul
and considering if there is any way
I can return the favor.

Life seemed meaningless before you
and then you gave me reason to go on.
And after you took that away
I found an even stronger motivation
so again, thank you
and beware.

Are you all right?
I worry about you sometimes.
I can’t help but wonder how it is
for you
in trying to overcome certain
impediments.
I imagine it’s frustrating
traveling at that pace,
struggling with your particular difficulties.
I hope I’m not insulting
but I want to make sure
you’re still up to the task.

I know it’s hard. I sympathize.
I’m trying to empathize
though I don’t have much direct experience with those issues.
I don’t have a tongue
that so frequently has had to contort
to speak such difficult words, like
“You were right”
and “I was wrong.”

Of course,
the practice must make it easier,
or so I’d imagine.

You said I’d made you cry
but never told me why;
what thing I did to hurt you so
and make your feelings die.

It leaves me feeling low
that I might never know
what crime was so egregious
to let seeds of turmoil sow?

And how the chaos grew
after months too few
we were left with only sadness
– and tears and anger, too.

Thus ceased our opera
with me left saying “huh?”
and struggling to solve for X
in this romantic algebra.

If known, we would be free
of the catastrophe
that found you so frustrated
and left me without a thee.

Perhaps at last you’ll say
what made you go away.
and when I finally make amends
you and our love could stay
come what may
(I’m not gay
– except for Dre).

I’ve been thinking about it
for over ten years now, Billie.
There weren’t many people in our group
at that party
in the woods.
You saw me staring at you
– you couldn’t have missed me.
I’d been drinking a little
so it was hard to concentrate
and I must have been staring hard
following across the room
in your long floral print.

You were the belle of the ball
but you didn’t seem to know.
I was getting more courage
often liquid variety
on a bench away from the crowd
when you came up to me
looked at me for a bit
and asked for a light.

You were the one that started it.
You instigated with me.
You.

All this time
I felt I was the pursuer
the creepy freaky man
who couldn’t keep his hands, his eyes
and his mouth to himself.
But you decided I was worth talking to.
You got the ball rolling.
Maybe I was going to
but I hadn’t.
You did.

I’m not to blame.
I’m not at fault.
I’m didn’t start the fire, Billie.
You set this all up.
For god’s sake
you don’t even smoke!

As previously mentioned,
“wherefore” rhymes with “bare whore.”
What “bare whore” means,
however,
requires much further interpretation.

Three ways to decode that phrase immediately come to mind:
A prostitute who works nude.
A prostitute who has unprotected sex with clients.
A prostitute who is a bear.

Shit. There are four ways to define bare whore:
there’s a prostitute who only has sex with bears.
but now that I think about it
should those pros get paid in honey,
not money?
Wouldn’t that be funny?

None of this is to say
that ursine prostitution is a problem
that is easily licked
(insert bear penis joke here)
but it is better
to know the terms you’re working with
than to remain ignorant.

The rationale for why
we would be considering these terms
in the first place
remains to be seen.

I swore out loud
to whatever might be listening
that I could not ask you to be mine
until I had written a thousand poems,
so I got to work.
I wrote
and I wrote
and then wrote wrote wrote
and finally I got these thousand pieces put together.
They’re not all good.
Maybe half of them are chickenshit
with no rhyme, reason or reckoning
but I did complete the task.

I worry
– often, in fact –
that the quest for quantity
impacted poorly on the quality
and that, had I sought to write
ten perfect poems,
I would have spent the same time
and perhaps accomplished something greater.

I do like some of the product
and hope to show them to you
if you are willing
and will take my hand
and –
you can’t?
Your sister, Leah?
Isn’t she kind of a shrew?
OK.

All right.
A thousand more.
Or one kilopoem.
Fine.
Back to work…

Congratulations.
You’re not as pathetic as everyone says.
You’re nowhere near the embarrassment
we all had previously thought.

You’ve proven capable
of stringing several sentences together
and not offend everyone in listening distance.
Good job.

Whether you can capitalize
on this accomplishment
remains to be seen.
Can you avoid staring only at women’s chests
or boring everyone with your constant blather
about the socioeconomic repercussions of flatulence?
What about starting no arguments
with staff because you’re so fucking cheap?
We’ll see.

But so far, so good.
You haven’t fucked anything up
for a good three hours.
Keep it up:
only a lifetime to go.

I never liked your macaroni.
It was always too hard,
too chewy.
You always made a mouthful
out of molehill.

I said I was allergic to your cat
but really
I just didn’t like his smell
like something had died too long ago.
Maybe it was because he was a mouser
or maybe it was because he was old.
You didn’t find it funny that
when Cattington Q Whiskerston mysteriously disappeared
I never had a problem
being around your next cat, Hugh Fancy?
Huh. Imagine that.

You’re not as bright as you think you are
but that’s only sensible
since you’re actually pretty dumb.
A recent study showed
unsurprisingly
that dumb people
are more prone to incorrectly assess their own intelligence. Why did they bother with that obvious research?
Maybe dumb people conducted it.
Was it your study?
It could’ve been.

Looking at you
and your state of shock,
it’s hard to imagine you
any less beautiful than you are right now
but keep staring.
You might be able to beat your record
as the ugliest asshole in the world.

Sometimes it’s easier to speak truth
when bridges have already been burned
and apartments already trashed
and ex-boyfriends already refucked in the back of pickup trucks. Anyway, I’m glad we can be honest with each other
or, at least, that I can finally be honest with you.