jonberger

When they refused to serve my mother
late to the table
I said we could not frequent their establishment
and got up
in a huff.
It’s a shame
that not all of my party
was as quick
to follow my gesture.

My father
found it necessary
to finish our bread sticks
before getting up
to abandon the restaurant
that had treated my mother so shabbily.
We waited for him
by the door
as he took all of our time
licking the basket clean
before joining us.

"What the fuck was that?"
I asked
when the finally closed behind us.
"I was hungry," he shrugged.
"We still are," I said.
We found a better place to eat.

That place we abandoned is gone now
and so is my dad.
My mother continues
to not get served
by either one.

Across the courtyard
out of reach
are a thousand windows
presenting a thousand rooms
with a thousand different tenants
in a thousand hospital beds.

Each window shows an individual story
a thousand words long
– at least –
with many stories sharing certain redundancies.
A cluster of cancer victims
are treated by a cadre of attentive RNs.
A series of small wheelchairs
sit empty
awaiting child amputees in the morning.
Silent elders
sleeping through evenings
never expecting to leave their beds.

At night
when the lights click on
witness a variety of adventures unfold across the courtyard in the North Wing
as propped in your bed
you wait for the doctor
to delivery her diagnosis.

You were Harry’s imaginary friend
until Harry went to college
became Harold
and wouldn’t return your calls.
You tried to adopt another kid,
some Tom or Dick
to call your very own
but it didn’t work out.
You ended up lonely
without a pal to play with.

Down the line
you forgot your origin
but couldn’t help but haunt Harry’s old hood
never straying far from streets you two tread.
It was not a bad life
but it was not quite half a life
and you faded,
became vague
as Harold aged and grayed.

You didn’t know
your life was tied with his
or that you, wan, weathered,
weary, would be welcomed again
by your oldest friend eventually.
Harold, old, demented
needed you finally
and though you could not quite recognize him
you were pleased to at last have someone.
You were there for him
and you two trekked together
until the end.

It may not have been a good life
but it is what you had.
It was what you could get.
It is what you two shared.

If I could write poems
as often as I shit my pants
I’d like to think
that I’d probably be too busy
to shit my pants anymore.
But then again
the whole thought experiment blows up
if I didn’t shit my pants
with alarming regularity
so maybe it’s for the best
that’s it’s all theoretical.
I don’t shit my pants,
like, at all.

Well, I mean I have.
Long ago,
in the past
in the distant history
of last Thursday
when Rusty Dave’s chili
proved not quite as binding
as had been promised.
It so happened
that the product looked pretty much the same
both before and after.

I wasn’t able to salvage the jeans from that evening
but I’ll always have the memories
– and if I had a memory
for every time I shat my pants
– wait.

Never mind,
I do.

Keep it in your pants
and don’t go off half-cocked.
I’m not sure what you’ve heard
or what stories you may be spreading
but Nicky’s all right.
He’s A-OK.

Sure, Nicholas hasn’t been around in a while.
I haven’t seen him in months
but I don’t think he’s dead.
Not yet.
It’d be too soon.

MIA ain’t the same thing as DOA
I can assure you.
Nick’s get some spring left in his step,
I’ll bet.
No news, I’ve heard,
is good news
– though, if I heard it through the mainstream news,
mightn’t that make it fake news?
No matter;
Nicholas is fine, I’m sure.
He’s fine!

Sure, I know what he gets up to
but Mister Nick can take it.
He can stand the abuses
he heaps upon himself
for at least a little while more.
He can’t be dead
– not yet.
He can’t be… yet.

When Natalie loved me
there was hope.
When Natalie loved me
there was somewhere to go
moves still to make.
The game wasn’t done then
back when Natalie loved me.

She was wonderful and new
and exuberance bled
from our every step.
We were joyful,
she and I,
in the days
when she looked at me ecstatically
and spoke oh so lovingly.

It didn’t last.
It couldn’t.
Things wouldn’t stay the same.
Stasis is rarely a natural state
and eventually
it made sense that she would learn
understand the error of her ways
and find a new better way
through which to unlove me.

Since that time
we’ve drifted.
I don’t even know where she is
or how
but I remember who she was
back then
when the world seemed open and new
and we always had something to do
and emotions seemed pristine and true
when Natalie loved me.

Hivemind: give me a hand.
There was this feeling I had
about this girl
who shall remain nameless
because of the other parties involved.
She made me feel… something.

Was it lust?
Euphoria?
Did I invent a new emotion
to handle the co-mingling of sensations
that rose within me
within her presence?
Could it perhaps be called
shamiphilia?
Or does that already exist?

What did she mean to me,
hivemind, and
could you send me her number?

Art seems somewhat pointless
in this age
of epic struggles
and criminal gods.
It is hard
to see value
in dick jokes and sobs
in the face of the upcoming battles.

Who cares if you didn’t get the girl?
Who cares if you’re alone in this world?
Who cares if they’re out of Choco-Swirl?
Who cares at all?

Individual entities are meaningless
when surrounded
by these titannic world-changing factors.
Who is going to listen
to the whines of the artist?
Why bother at all
unless
it helps one soul
go on another day
or find a voice to say "nay"
or any other resistant thought.

Maybe then
art still has a slight bit of use
left in its sad
pointless bones.

They stopped next to the bridge
for a drink.
They were slumming
taking a glance
at how the other ninety eight
point nine five
lived.
It wouldn’t take long.

They ordered soft drinks
for they were unsure if “soda”
was the proper parlance
or “cola”
or “coke” or “pop.”
They had not done proper research
on the new land they were discovering
and had no interest
in alienating the natives.

They found the architecture quaint
and appreciated the aboriginal dressings on the walls.
It was all so cute
so very authentic
and they were careful not to despoil the land
by overtipping on the drinks.

They took pictures.
They offered compliments.
They laughed and they danced
and they enjoyed themselves immensity
by the bridge
before they paid
thanked the locals
got back into their chariot
and crossed the expanse,
back to real life.

I wrote this for Jennifer.
Not her.
A different one
that I have known a little longer
and thought about
for quite a while: you.
Even you, Jennifer, were not the first.
I have met dozens of Jennifers
– hundreds –
and loved quite a few of them.
You are the one
who remains with me
always.

Sometimes
it feels like God
has placed infinite alternate Jennifers before me
distracting me from your charms.
Yours is a popular name
for a very good reason
and I have enjoyed the company
of any number of your number.
LIke Jacob’s Leah
before Rachel
I feel undeterred.

I have met iterations
combinations, permutations…
all variations of you
different in so many regards
but so many
still so very appealing.
I would forsake all others
for a chance at our life.
I would fuck one thousand Jennifers
to get to you.

Perhaps someday
you’ll give me a chance
to prove it.