jonberger

I’ve been struggling
for days
to write up an explanation
as to why I’m not talking to you
even though I’ve been walking the walk
for some years now.

On certain days, though
I’m reminded of the good times
and I regret you being out of my life.
It’s in moments like those
when I need to chronicle
my abiding rage
and recall just why
I must keep my distance.

I speak about you rarely
and try to never unearth our history
for others, lest I break down
and they see my villainous rage.
I keep mum
so it’s hard sometimes to remember
why I maintain this two-state solution
and will not enter Louisiana again.

Because I don’t often
revisit the evil we once did
it is hard
when I try to say
why we must never speak.
It is a struggle to state
“You are a snake,
and your bite
however unintentional
remains deadly”
but the words remain true.
Metaphorical, perhaps, but still true.

Anyway, I hope you are well,
but I remain glad
that you are very far away
and hope that remains true
for many years to come
even if I don’t always remember it.

The pigeons sing some ridiculous song
as the sun lights rainbows on the slicks on the street.
The rats convene down the most local alley
gnawing on their most delicious found meat.

The city’s alive with a desperate hunger,
a yearning for Spring that has almost arrived.
The sidewalks are filled with combustible vigor
with every inch of existence alive.

I thank this feast of the senses around me
even including that old garbage stink and the look of abandoned folks, living on corners asking for cash with a slur and a wink.

The world is a wonder when I care to listen
so seasonally rare that I choose to take chance
but today is a day I can listen to thunder
and recognize an invitation to dance.

It was elegant.
It was perfect.
It was quick and sweet
and it lacked all the typical messiness
of a longer affair.
It ended
right at the start.

We weren’t good for each other
in the long run
that was clear
so we found what solace we could offer
and then parted.
For one wonderful night
we were one
at home
and then
the house divided.

It was good.
It was fine.
It was excellent.
We left with good wishes
and amazing memories
and I wouldn’t change a thing
except return to the scene
and stay long enough
for it to get messy.

When that beautiful boy broke your pretty little heart
did it hurt?
Was it crushing
when he said
he wanted to see other people
– lots of other people
– any people who weren’t you?

Was it a difficult few hours
of torment
as you suffered the slings and arrows
of courageous misfortune
when he hurt your feelings
by not reciprocating yours?
Was it bad?
Were you sad?
Does this conversation make you mad?
I’m glad.
I’m happy
you finally feel a little
of what it’s like from the other end.

Maybe next time
when we talk
and I ask if you wanna see
the latest Rocky film
you’ll remember
and be a little kinder.

All week
I’ve even waiting to see you
hoping to run into you
praying for a chance encounter
like last time.
I know we said
we’d leave the future to fate
but a week’s past
and I don’t really think fate
is up to the task
of hooking us up.
I really want to hook up
with you again.

I really want to hear you talk
about the politics of masturbation again.
Really, I want to hear anything
you’d have to say.
I had secretly hoped
we’d both coincidentally find ourselves
at the place
we’d just happened to be last time
and that maybe there was enough of a connection
to bring us from then to now.

Nope.
When you said to leave it to chance
you meant it
– more than me, at least.
It was not the first time this week
I was wrong, I guess,
nor the forty fifth.
Wherever I go
my eyes rarely leave the front door
looking for you.

I just heard a lyric
that said
“you should tell your friends
that you love them”
or something like that.

The singer of said song
is now dead –
he passed tragically young
in a comical event
involving a synchronized swimmer
and a misplaced clock.
You might not remember him;
he was big in some alterna-funk/folk circles,
a real comer on the scene.

The album came out
a couple of weeks
after the aforementioned incident.
The timing was too quick
to be an intentional cash-in
on the semi-celebrity death
unless the release schedule
at indie labels
has sped up dramatically since the 90s
though I kinda doubt it.

It makes the song
seem somewhat apocryphal
and certainly a kind sentiment.
Anyway
I heard the song
and thought you might like it.
that alterna-folk/funk
might be about your speed.
I thought I should reach out.
So
how’re you doing?

I had seen the movie
with your name
just weeks before I met you.

Now, I’m not one
who sees signs and allusions
in every action
– except I totally am.

I search for patterns and rhythms
in dates and dollars.
All numbers and names
and color coordination
have the hope of unlocking
some secret treasure trove of data,
the unknown code book of the multiverse.

The movie was slight
but seemed somehow special
at the time
and the days after
felt pregnant with opportunity,
like some other giant shoe
was about to crash from the sky.

And then it did.
And it was you.
And I didn’t even remember that movie
until a couple of weeks more
and only then did I start to see
the similarities in character and situation
and understand
the subtle foreshadowing
of the whole thing.

Usually, though,
these happen in threes.
So I wonder, was it:
First, I am warned
Second, you appear
and Third, you swallow the gasping world
with your infernal design
or
am I somewhere missing a step?

It is infuriating, sometimes
how police officers
– allegedly peace officers –
waste their jackbooted time
bothering the law-abiding
rather than going after actual criminals.
The number of times
I’ve been harassed
just because of my white power tattoos
and hateful rhetoric
is enough to drive a good man
right on down to Bad Town.

When I’m behind the wheel,
I may occasionally speed
but generally,
I follow the rules of the road.
Not the piddling pedestrians all around, though.
Standing in the middle of the road
flagrantly jaywalking
crossing the street when I need to make a right turn…
these idiots infuriate – incessantly!

So
if I may goose the gas a bit
when I see them
or possibly aim at the passers-by
when they come into view
or honk constantly
while grabbing my tire iron,
who truly can blame me?

Well, the cops can blame me,
that’s for sure.
Time and time again
I’ve been threatened with doing time
just because I’m showing these delinquent
walkers
the rule of law.
Who is the fuzz to tell ME what to do?
Keep the serfs in line,
that’s what I say!

While Officers Downs and Straczinski
are occupying themselves
with my enthusiastic vigilantism
real criminals are crossing the street
– against the light.
It’s a travesty.

It’s injustice
– though technically,
still in the name of justice.
It’s a crime against nature
if not actually the state.
Something ought to be done.
Why can’t they legislate
against pigs enforcing the laws?

Something’s gone wrong.
There is an element in the air
that was previously not there.
I can’t identify what’s different
but we’re toxic now.
We’ve lost it.
Tension surrounds us
where before there was jasmine and technicolor.

If there was a way
to go back
before it happened
whatever it may have been
and rectify the situation…
I would like to find that way.
But how do you cork the spilled wine?
The barn door has left the station.
How can I fix the mistake
without knowing what it was?

It is like when some ingredient
in a recipe
had already spoilt
but was already added anyway.
When the meal tastes like shit
how do you uncover which specific part
fucked the flavor?
It is impossible to know.

Perhaps it was when you started your new job
or how you didn’t have time
to make me lunches
or that you stopped defending me
against your family.
Maybe it was when
you found out about me
and your step-mom.
Or your grand-niece?
Or your ferrets?
I don’t know.

I just know that we haven’t been right
in some time
and I wish
we could somehow clear the air
and you could get back
to packing Twinkies in my bag.

I’d suggested brunch
because I thought a daytime place
would be quiet, civilized
but I didn’t anticipate The Esteban Choi Trio
playing unrecognizable jazz standards
while our eggs get cold.

My dining companion is beautiful and kind
and I thought she might be wise
but I could never understand
her softly-spoken words
in our normal settings.
She looks wonderful across from me
but I still can’t hear
much of what he says.
I have already used up
my allotted collection
of "What"s, "I’m sorry"s
and "Could you repeat that?"s.

She is asking
with her eyes
assorted questions
and since I recognize mouth movement
of some of her phrases
I take a stab at conversation
hoping that the words I mumble
actually respond to her queries.

I pride myself
on quality conversation
but this meal
with this girl
is going awfully
– or maybe awfully well.
I can’t tell.
At least she hasn’t stormed off
yet.

I wonder what we’re talking about.

Esteban just announced
the combo’ll soon take a fifteen minute intermission.
Maybe now I can –
Perfect.
When she comes back from the bathroom,
we’ll pick it up.
We’ll have a laugh about the awkwardness so far.
She’ll understand why I explained my middle name
"Somewhere on the Upper West Side."

As soon as she comes back
our conversation will be scintillating
at least for the few minutes
before the band strikes up again.

I think that my ENT
told me to get a hearing aid
but my back was turned
at the time.