jonberger

You can’t make me watch you die.
That’s my choice
and whether I make it or not
is still entirely up in the air.
You can do what you’re going to do
obviously
but I can’t imagine why
I’d want to be here
bearing witness to your massive stupidity.

Give me a reason
why you would expect me
to witness you
just riding your ship into the ground.
Try.

Yes, all right.
“Love.”
I’ll grant you that.
But it is also the perfect counter argument,
don’t you think?
Why should I watch a third act
so premature
so pathetic
so preventable?

There are steps you can take
to rectify the situation.
If you refuse to do so little for you
why should I have to do so much?
What makes you think that’s fair?

Oh, yes.
Of course.
“See above.”
And they rhyme, too.

Fine.
I’ll do it.
But just this once.

The busman would not open the door for me
even though I was at the bus stop.
He just passed me by
and, though caught by a red light,
would still not open his doors.

It’s a simple act.
He’s got a lever that lets the door spread wide
and then I could ride at leisure
but the busman refused.
I tried to ask him why
but glass and doors separated us.

When the light changed
I stood in front of the bus
so he couldn’t go anywhere
without further inconveniencing me.
It’s not like the bus trip
was worth my life
but it was kind of late
and I didn’t like his attitude.

After he honked
and I jumped onto his front window
and jumped down and did a little dance
he opened the door
so I went to the side
to thank him and enter
but the busman closed it again
and sped off.

No other bus showed up.
I walked home.
If there’s a moral to the story
I hope it’s about busmen’s small dicks.

If the wrong man
does the right thing
is it truly the right thing
or still somehow a travesty
because someone wrong was involved?
Can a good act come from a bad man?

Is honesty right
if the truth causes sorrow
that could be avoided?
What if there is no clear growth?
In trying to correct historic mistakes,
is repeating those mistakes justified?

Which serves humanity better:
the law or justice?
crime or tyranny?
goodness or kindness?
Can you bully for a better world?

Dylan should have answers
for these questions
even if they’re snide.
Pity he’s not writing right now.

I’m afraid to ask after Carmine.
I haven’t seen him anywhere for weeks
but I can’t say anything.
I worry about what I’ll hear,
what I might learn.
If he’s gone
I guess life goes on.
It’s not like I’d have known any different
before I got the news
but I hate to think
what the world might be
without him.

He’s been around forever
even if he hasn’t been around too much lately.
Maybe he moved.
Maybe he’s sick.
Maybe he’s vacationing
in a better part of the world.
Maybe he’s gone
to a better place.

I hope someone
can say what’s up with Carmine
but I am simply terrified to ask.

You don’t know me
probably.
I’m one of the thousands of boys
who lusted after you
in your heyday
way back when.
I watched your show
on VCR
over and over
and over
until the tapes wore and snapped.

I have known you
for most of my life
and thought of you
through many a lonely night and
I never thought I’d have the chance to see you
meet you
look you down the plunging top
and thank you
thank you for making the best fucking films.

I shouldn’t tell you
how much my friends and I
enjoyed ourselves in the presence
of your younger self.
You left many a cold evening much warmer
with thoughts of you.
I’d like to show my appreciation
of all you had to do
with my upbringing.

If I could take you out
and give you one quarter of the pleasure
you’ve given me
that would be a fun night.
Just give me a few minutes
to work on the outfits
and I’ll be ready to go.

Saying things that are honest
is no fun.
It leaves you open to ridicule
and shame and beatings
and finger-pointings
– which might be the worst.

I guess saying things
that are honest
could have some rewards
if what is honest isn’t offensive
or aberrant
or dangerous or cruel
(I worry that honesty
is usually all of them).
If honest things are good,
then I guess sharing them would be good, too.

Saying things that are honest
causes me trouble
the very few times I’ve done it
which might explain
why it’s such a rarity for me.

It is also
why I am so scared
to ask people to be honest with me.
I find it much safer
to avoid that risk altogether
don’t you?

You can tell me.
Really.

Dawn.
It’s too fucking early
for any mortal to be awake.
Why did God create a six o’clock
if not to punish his sinning servants?

Perhaps the Devil
built this evil hour
and the ones before it
to make the unjust
fear betraying their dark lord.

Or maybe the Morning Industrial Complex
had something to do
with this ridiculous time of day.
What am I talking about?
Who am I even talking to?
Why bother explaining anything?

Just shut up
and go back to sleep.
Everything will still be here
at ten o’clock.

At the top of the building
across the street
from my mother’s house
sits one of my father’s offices.
They kept relocating him
across the city.

He’s not there anymore
(at this hour
he never was);
he retired years ago
but it’s strange to think
even years after separation
my father had a place
where he could
look in on my mother
ensuring she was all right.

Eventually
that would become my mother’s role
in the relationship
– even years after separation.

Now, he doesn’t work anymore
and she doesn’t watch him anymore
and I don’t think there’s even an office
for my father’s old job anymore.
Everything changes
but the buildings remain
reminding those old enough
to remember.

I knew I shouldn’t have bothered you again.
I knew I should have just let it go,
should’ve realized that two ships passing in the night sea
is perfectly lovely imagery.
I knew I should have let it be.

I don’t know when to quit
but I also don’t know when to start
and I don’t know which ignorance
causes more trouble.
I shouldn’t have troubled you.
I’m sorry that things ended that way
instead of the organic way
that had preceded.
I just thought we had such a good time –
maybe it could have been something more.

I’m sorry for all the vomit.
I’ll pay for the cleaning
if you let me.

The 24-hour diner
has one of those revolving trays
where all the desserts spin round
and round, tempting,
teasing, taunting with their sugared goodness.
The multicolored mousse
is most appealing this evening.

I can’t have it.
I can’t afford it – physically.
My system could be shocked
by a single slice of that saturated
super-sweetened sensation.
But every time it circles round
it hypnotizes, drawing me ever closer.

Even after leaving the diner
I remain in its thrall
watching the revolution
from outside
watching the mousse orbit closer
then further, then closer, then further,
then it’s after midnight.
Shame it’s raining.