We used to speak much more comfortably
when we had something that bonded us.
That thing is sundered now
and our conversations flounder.
We speak short stunted sentences
with the strangers’ awkward pauses.
We once knew each other.
We once shared.
Now that our mutuality is buried
and we are widowed
this ache is all we have left.
Breaking the rules was a problem, of course,
but not the rules of the earth.
When she surpassed the speed limit
no one seemed to bat an eye,
but you burst out of a single mirror
in a brand new high rise
and they contact the authorities right away.
She suspected it was the fact
that she chose to haunt the state-of-the art
seventy-eight story structure that caused the commotion.
It’s expected out on dusky estates,
but gleaming spires?
That set the paranormal detectors
peeking behind curtains immediately.
She gave them her best:
a skeletal performance in a velvet gown,
playing a mournful violin.
She was see-through, unnaturally,
and when they tried to scream,
they found themselves with mouthfuls of thorns.
She laughed herself to sleep over the last.
It was a nice touch.
She had no association with the building.
She had no association with Manhattan, really.
She’d just always wanted to live there.
Since she hadn’t, she figured she might as well unlive there.
It was working out great so far.
The authorities were complaining, sure,
but she wasn’t having a problem with them.
If she found them too troublesome, she’d just move along.
Up to now, though, she was having the time of her death.
"Anger is an energy," John said, before he became an asshole,
before he had to devote his energy
to defending his wife
from her body,
before he changed
from what we loved
to what we loathe.
John is not the icon
we adore anymore.
John holds a different energy entirely now.
It is still an energy we need.
It is still an energy of anger.
It is bitter pill to swallow,
that he was right.
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.
jonberger 