jonberger

Someone once asked what time it was.
It’s time to get down and dirty.
It’s time to get in the mud.
It’s time we got really gritty.
I think we’ve run out of suds.

We’ve probably got to get basic
and work with just wood and wire.
Put on the glasses; fuck Lasik!
And root through the muck and mire.

If ever we needed to stop messing around, this is it.
So why am I puttering and posturing and sputtering all of this crappy shit?
Let’s get over it and stop and throw down to what it’s about:
I’m gonna scream and shout!

ARGH!

(Though frankly, if wordless, primal emotion worked,
I’d have wasted my time with some thousands of shameful doggerel works, eh?
Something for me to reflect on.)

It has taken much longer than expected to realize what as anticipated from photography
almost at the beginning:
with memory upgrades,
the iPhone has finally reached the point
where its photographs can capture the soul.

The images, available only as PNG,
are not easily transferred from the device
and do not have a clear market yet,
as the technology is still newly developed.

Those who had had their souls recorded
have not noticed a marked difference
in actions and reactions without one.
Exciting times for Apple.
Looks like Tim Apple has done it again!

The word on the street is you’re getting kind of ill.
You’ve seen a light upon a hill.
That soon you’ll have your fill.
The word on the street is that you’ve not written your will,
but soon you’ll be dead.

And still you keep buying up the town,
throwing money all around,
trying to make your problems drown!
It looks like you’re spending money like a clown,
as if you’ve lost the thread.

Just keep in mind you can’t take it when you go.
It’ll still be here, don’t you know.
It stays on Earth, Devil says so.
It doesn’t matter how much money ’round you throw:
you might as well keep your bread.

What you buy when you die becomes somebody else’s problem.
(Somebody else’s problem, somebody else’s problem, somebody else’s problem)
What you buy when you die becomes somebody else’s problem,
so keep it in mind.

All that stuff that you’ve got becomes someone else’s shit.
You cannot keep it.
It can’t be manumit.
Somebody else will just have to deal with it.
So give them a break.

Just buy less stuff, and make it easier on your heir.
Give them your best care.
It is only fair.
After all, they’ve probably got your hair,
do them this favor, for God’s sake.

Live a modest life, or just give it all away.
Donate it in a day.
Give the poor cache.
If you believe in heaven, in your balance, this will weigh
like a giant cheesecake.

What you buy when you die becomes somebody else’s problem.
(Somebody else’s problem, somebody else’s problem, somebody else’s problem)
What you buy when you die becomes somebody else’s problem,
so keep that in mind!

i was so lonely when she left
when the house was emptied of her spirit
when i stood there by myself.

i took stock of what i had lost.
i spent days in my head
in my memories
haunted in my solitude
and the echoes of misery.

then i recorded it.
i took note of what had been lost
told the stories
reported my own legends
and after i put them down
i let them out.

i put on a show
with a podium.
a little service
to commemorate what was missing
and when all was said
i put the pages of the speech
in a pile
and lit them.

the fire went quickly.
i let it all go.

i am still lonely
but the place
seems freer now.

He strides with his own soundtrack
and commands his own applause.
He defines a world from a vision only he can see
and his vision
is as cracked as can be.

Can you see the swirls in his eyes?
As they rise and fall
this plane restructures
and so might you.
A pill makes you small, or tall, or not here at all
and a glass makes you reappear to the delight
of all who you knew.
It’s like a game, but only he knows the rules.

He’s a chaos minister
and his words defy control.
He takes you for a trip
for as long as he is there.
He can take you anywhere.

Safe travels.
Safe returns.

The world is small
seen from the right height.
So are you.

Also:
From the right height,
you are very
very big.

Finally:
drugs can be
incredibly
affordable.

There were topics
I felt I couldn’t discuss
because I thought they would be hurtful,
like when I was interested in Brianna
when Alyssa was interested in me.
If I said something,
I was afraid Alyssa might blow her top,
even though I am infamous for talking about everything.

So when I was not talking about either Brianna or Alyssa
it was really suspect
and it made Brianna think I upset with her
and it made Alyssa think I was into her
– so everybody got the wrong idea.
Such a mess.

Honesty would have been a good policy,
but I’m not good at that,
and I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.
So instead everyone got hurt.

Good work.
Very high school.

In my defense,
it was school
– grad school.

The One Percent’s trying to keep me down
by selling my information
to the other One Percenters.
You’d think the evil supervillains
would keep all the data in one big evil database
to share with each other
so they don’t have to bother selling to one another,
but I guess that’s capitalism for you:
insidious to the last drop.

If I could sell the database idea to the One-ers,
I could probably join their sinister club,
but would I really want to do that?
Isn’t it better that I maintain my autonomy
and work against the system from the outside?

Do any of you by chance know the number to the One Percent?

Jim says you gotta keep doing what you’re doing
but he always says this.
You wonder if this is how he talks to everybody
or if this is a personal positivity training he gives only to you.
You kind of doubt it.

He says that your work is special,
that your self-effacement is meaningful,
and that if you keep pushing through,
someone is going to notice.
He doesn’t say who and he doesn’t say how
but he remains optimistic.

He always does.

You don’t know how he does it
or why
but Big Jim always has a smile on his face
– a big dopey smile.
Maybe it’s the dope.
Probably it’s the dope.

Maybe it’s good to talk to Jim.

Jim tells you to keep going.

You do.

My first leather jacket was vinyl.
A bomber, probably inspired by Catch-22,
long before I read it.
Maybe Airplane, now that I think about it.
That makes more sense.

It lasted for about a year and a half.
The jacket got shredded by the environment eventually.
Vinyl doesn’t last, but only petrochemicals died for it,
so there’s that.

After that, I wanted another bombardier jacket,
but this time made of real live suffering animal.
I waited years, and then no longer cared for that style.

It took some more years to find interest
in a biker jacket,
which I got for about thirty dollars
at a point where that was a ridiculously good deal.
It was far too good a deal.

The jacket was leather,
but I wouldn’t dare to wonder what kind of animals it was made from.
Maybe rat skins?
It took longer to fall apart that my original bomber,
but not much.

My second jacket only cost fifty,
but it’s rugged.
It’s got a weird patchwork style
and I suspect it’s been made from bears or something.
Maybe rhinoceri.

I don’t really know much about the tanning industry.

I love the jacket,
even if I don’t feel too good about wearing leather.
Not that I have the courage of my convictions.