jonberger

Every few days I try to duplicate
the circumstances of our first chance meeting.
You walking out for lunch,
maybe shopping for furniture.
Me ambling about town, wondering
how much longer I can stay in the city
without any sort of reason
to keep me going.
If I repeat the formulae of our origins
I hope to recreate our own unique alchemy.
Maybe then I’ll spin gold
out of this goat shit we’ve found for ourselves.

Patterns and rituals are what shall save us.
Ritual patterns will make us whole.

The repetition, the return to history,
the renovation and rejuvenation
all have purpose.
They will serve in saving us.
If I find the place where it went wrong
then a simple revision will right our course
and we can become what we were always meant to be.
That is the hope, of course.
That is the plan.
So I’ll wander the streets
seeking a chance
to get back to where we once belonged.

Patterns and rituals can fix our future.
Ritual patterns will bring us home.

When we start over, this is how it shall go:
Hi there.
“We don’t know each other
but I feel like we should.
There is something about you
that I would very much like to know
and I feel it might be mutual.
I hope it might be mutual.
Let it be mutual.
Do you like to dance?”

It is different from how we started
but I think
It will make us stronger.

Patterns and rituals are what can help us.
Ritual patterns will make us one.

All the pretty girls are flying away even before I have asked them to play.
They up and leave me, whatever I say.
Every pretty girl’s just flying away.

There must be something I can do
to make one stay – or eighty two.
But still a pill that’s tough to chew
remains: the cute girls all have flew.

I wish I could convince one girl
to cease her travel round the world
maybe then we’d be a swirl
or she and I and love unfurled.

Until that time I must remain
a saddened bachelor, still untamed.
Perhaps someday that fact will change
and a hot girl will want my name.

Just tell me what to do.
I can’t figure out
what you want me to
– I haven’t so far
at all –
so let’s skip any further attempts at telepathy
and get down to the nitty gritty.

Do you want me to pick you up after work?
Do you need me to attempt some amateur dentistry?
Is there some kind of fragrant cheese
I should purchase in your name?
Do you need time alone?

I’m in the weeds here
lacking any understanding whatsoever
of what you’re looking for
and I’m looking to solve that.
What can I do to serve you?
Instead of hoping I figure it out
can you give me a sign?

I’m just guessing now.
How about a clue?
Does it start with a G?
Does it END with a G?

Hey, fuck you guys.
They loved this in Peoria.
The stuff that you’re being oh so polite over,
this shit killed a couple of states from here.
They adored it
and me.

They lifted me up
by shins and needles,
raised over head,
and paraded me down to Chamber of Commerce
or someplace equally lame
and lauded me as the city’s favorite son.
You get what I’m saying?
Peoria loved me;
capital L U V
you see?

So I don’t know what’s up your butts.
You should relax a little
like the folks of Central Illinois
or at least drink as much as them.
Maybe then you’d appreciate my clever wordplay,
my incessant allusions,
my expressive idiot savantitry.

Yeah, I think you’d really get me
if this place had a six drink minimum.

The gift you offered
is inappropriate, Mister Samson.
It was ill-received,
and I’ll thank you not to bring it up again.

Why? Well, if I must explain:
no aspect of it provided an instant
of sexual gratification
or graft
or even prurient interest.

It was banal what you offered
Mister Samson
and unless you up your gift-giving prowess
I don’t see any way
you’ll be able to convince me
to shoot the governor.

Oh, ice cream donuts?
Now we’re getting somewhere.

I’m sorry your garage burnt down.
I’m sorry your workday got expanded
by like three hours
and that overtime has been eliminated.
I’m sorry you got caught
with your hand in the till
and your pants
and on the chopping block.
I’m sorry it’s been such a rotten week.
Also month
and year.

I’m sorry your girlfriend left
and your snake escaped
and the mice you bought for his meals
all overpopulated and escaped the cage
getting into your walls
before dying in very smelly ways
except for the two
that seem to scratch near your bedroom
striving to get out
between two and four in the morning
weekdays.
I’m sorry those aren’t the hours
your job extended to.

I’m sorry I didn’t call
to see how you were
and that your uncle died
when he did so.
I’m sorry there’s so much
that I have to be sorry for
and haven’t gotten around to it previously

but, all that being said,
do you think you could scoot
your wheelchair over
just a skosh?
You’re really blocking the road.

It was the whiskey
in the jar
that kept the wee-wee
out the hole.
I was paying too much attention
to my alcohol
and not enough on her needs
or even my abilities.

I tried and tried
then cried and cried
as my dick was fried.
I was inebriatedly incompetent
and too drunk to fuck.
I wanted to show her a good time
but had too good a time
earlier in the evening
so we ended up cuddling
until she has to go wash her cat.

I am never drinking again
even though that was the only way
I could get her in the sack
in the first place.

I just wish there was some way
to know when I’ve had too much
other than common sense.

Tell me about your dogs growing up.
Did you walk them
or just let them roam the yard?
Did you have space
to get lost on your property?

What was it like
to be from a town
where everybody knew your name
where your future could be defined
by your family a generation back?
How was it
to know everyone in your graduation class?
To know everybody in your high school?
To know anybody who’d come down your street
just about every day?

Tell me about your childhood sweetheart.
Did you think you would last?
Did you believe you’d be forever?
Did you plan to escape town together
and go on the run?
How’d that work out?

Your history is a complete mystery
and I yearn to know so much more
about how you came to be the she
before me.
Paint me a picture.
Tell me about yourself
and the dogs from your youth.
Tell me about Rex.

I’m gonna stop circling your block
any minute now.
You’re probably not even home.
You may not even be in town
for all I know.

I’m gonna stop sniffing out your trail.
There’s no reason to
as you’ve made abundantly clear.
We won’t be speaking about this
or anything else
even if I did run into you
face full of shock
at the amazing coincidence
of it all.
No point in seeing you.
No motivation to be in your neighborhood.

I’m gonna quit this ridiculous habit
and quit you.
We shall finally have mutual reciprocation
of our respective requited rejections
right after this next revolution around your block.

I’ll be done with you
and your address
soon.
Any day now.

The party’s over; it’s a new day.
Sunshine glints off the leftover tray.
Stumbling past all of last night’s mess,
your eyes rest on what will fill you best:
Cake breakfast
cake breakfast
cake breakfast.
Not nutritious but quite delicious!
Cake breakfast
cake breakfast
cake breakfast.
Even better the second day.

Some crust is in your eyes as well as on your table.
You try to clean the place up just as much as you are able. But every dozen minutes you just need a lie-down
and some sugar in your system to make diabetics frown.
Cake breakfast
cake breakfast
cake breakfast.
Every bite so dashing – though of course you’ll soon be crashing. Cake breakfast
cake breakfast
cake breakfast.
The diet of Marie Antoinette.

Remember New Years?
The world was full of potential,
and you were full of piss and vinegar,
swearing this was the year you’d get it right.
You’d get clean. You’d stop partying so heartily
get on a steady diet
and become the man you always knew you could be.
Do you remember all that optimism?

The moon’s coming up; the whole day has been shot.
Still you thank the presidents, cuz that party was Hot!
You wish you could accomplish more and be less of a sinner
but there’s still a third a cake left – and THAT’S what’s for dinner. Cake breakfast
cake breakfast
cake breakfast.
You feel groggy; you feel low key. Your stomach grumbles. You feel pokey. Cake breakfast
cake breakfast
cake breakfast.
Something’s got to change.