You did nothing wrong
– nothing that everyone else already does.
Yours is not a unique crime
or any special shame.
It’s not your fault.
You’re not so bad.
You have no sin that’s original.
You’ve hurt no one
so grievously
that it can’t be forgiven.
You are no arch villain
twiddling mustachios in the night
or any other hour of the evil day.
Yours is not the worst thing done,
not even close.
There is no hell awaiting you
not unless you step up your game.
I owe you all sorts of apologies.
I haven’t been able
to act the same around you
since we ate that apple
and I learned the truth.
In truth,
we got along really well
at first
only because I didn’t know any better.
I lacked appropriate knowledge.
I lived in ignorance
but now with the fruit consumed,
I look at you with lust in my heart
along with many other parts.
Since that night
it is difficult to look at you
without staring
to be near you
without touching
to enter your orbit
without gravitating ever closer
to your celestial form.
It is impossible these days
to have a conversation with you
where I can maintain composure
and not
Say something stupid
or woo-full.
I am awkward around you always
and have been
every day
since you showed me what I was missing.
I have not been the same
since Halloween
and that cat suit.
You should have known I liked you
when I told you my middle name.
You should have known I liked you
when I showed you those scars.
You should have known I liked you
when I bought you that drink
and that other drink
and the tenth.
You should have known I liked you
from all my mirroring attempts
which went a little bad when we bonked heads.
You should have known I liked you
when I offered you my car.
You should have known that I liked you
when I laughed at your jokes
which weren’t half as funny
as I thought they were.
You should have known I liked you
when I stood up at the table and
yelled
“I like you!”
and then declared
for all the others present
(including the bartender
his dog
and two rummies)
that I liked you.
They knew.
You should have known.
I did what I could to make it clear.
I said all the things I hoped you would hear.
I confronted my fears
I bought you twelve beers
but it seems this experiment will come to tears
if you don’t get the message
that I like you
unless
maybe you did get the message?
Have you been hinting some sort of response?
What are you trying to tell me?
Look, Brookes…
I don’t want to tell you how to live your life
(actually, I want to do that very much.
Telling others what to do
is really a distinct pleasure of mine),
so I’ll simply describe my process
and hope that you agree with me.
If not,
I’ll just say it again and again
and eventually you may listen.
I try
when I write
not to be purely autobiographical.
I seek to be a little more universal.
Look, Brookes…
I can’t deny
that it lets me obfuscate certain details
so I’m getting to maintain my privacy
to some slight degree
but that’s a two-way street.
I’m not letting my business all out
but I’m also protecting any subject
I were about.
Look, Brookes…
when you write about me
and an us that was at least slightly imaginary
you run the risk of letting your laundry air publicly
and making a private conversation
less so.
Bring a slave to literalism
leaves you a slave.
Look, Brookes…
by tying your writing to specific details
of specific events
you risk alienating your readers
taking them out of what you describe
because it fails to apply to them.
Look, Brookes,
this is my way,
not the only way,
but I see a lot of good
in having some clinical distance
in my writing.
It means, sometimes,
that I’m writing about things
that I’m not absolutely writing about.
I think it’s a benefit
to not see direct translations of reality in art
but it you really disagree,
I guess you don’t always have to look, Brookes.
For the life of me
I could not be sure
if the child I was playing with
was a boy or a girl.
Long hair and rambunctious play
confounded gender stereotypes
as did a refusal of the kid
to give me any real name.
As we ran around and shot aliens
I wondered how much it mattered
if he were a girl
or she a boy
And it didn’t, really,
except for pronouns.
I just didn’t know
how to refer to it.
I guess i learned two lessons
from the venture:
Number One: children can grow
innumerable ways and none of them
are wrong.
and Number Two: don’t pick up strange toddlers in the park.
You will never make me feel that way again.
You no longer have that power;
I’m taking it back.
I will not heed your call
or respect your wishes.
I am done with care
and done with you.
The rampart is raised.
The tunnels dug.
You will never have chance
to touch any of this again.
You will never get near enough to me
to try.
We are done.
You will never have the opportunity
to make me feel again.
Begone.
The boy in the club
is crawling between stumbling punks
all lamming to the tunes
of the hung DJ.
The boy seems alone
while looking for his mother
all fishnets and lace
out for a rare night in public.
Currently, though,
she’s in private
with a stoner whose name she doesn’t remember.
The club is booming.
The mother basing.
The child is bawling
and nobody notices
because the hung DJ knows
how to keep a party going.
I keep glancing at glimpses
hoping to see some sign
from the corner of my eye
but you’re never there.
Hints and allusions
are all I can see.
Why must you hide?
How do you constantly maintain disguise?
When will I see you again?
When last you appeared
you looked so sweet
but talked so salty
and I am so hungry
for further tastes of you
I feel I’ve been starving for years.
Come out from the corners
and quit this game of Hide and Seek.
I need to see you again.
Appear.
Priscilla doesn’t want to be called pretty.
She doesn’t mind it
but wishes they would see something else
but her looks –
like her humor
or her speed
or the length of her handstands
or strength of her convictions.
She’s got a lot more to offer
than just her face.
Sometimes
she wishes they would insult her
instead of offering cliche
heaped on cliche.
If someone would just say
“Here’s why I hate you,”
it would at least be more direct.
More true.
She doesn’t want to make a big deal
about the physical.
She’s glad to be seen
but somehow wishes
she was seen differently.
Soon there will be life.
In the days to come
leaves will sprout
and branches strengthen
but for now
the ominous trees sway to the wind’s whistle,
creaking closer in silhouette
nearing those innocents
scurrying through twilight parks.
The paths are empty
for no one needs to be out
walking about
while the ominous trees loom
too near for safety’s taste.
Most folks sense the gloom
the hint of danger.
Most folks are quick to stay in.
The sun will shine again
and a cheshire moon will smile down lovingly
but now the moon is bad
and rising higher
still framed
by ominous trees
on this darkened day.
jonberger 