jonberger

It’s too late,
isn’t it?
There’s no way
this can possibly finish well
so perhaps this time
it is for the best
that it just
ends.

I see your lips moving
can feel the vibrations from your throat.
I hear the sounds you’re producing
and recognize the language
the syntax
the words and idioms
that you are producing in our native tongue.

I get all the component pieces of what you’re trying to tell me but
I cannot understand you.

What you do with English is
like irrational math
or some speaking in tongues thing.
You somehow do something imaginary with words
and leave me completely stumped.
I’m lost in a trail of images you’ve dropped
and I just can’t follow.

It’s not that I’m deaf
or dumb
or unused to communing with the strange.
I am conversant with alternatives
but you
have got me beat.
I don’t get it.
What are you talking about?

I.
He didn’t know which of his victims was haunting him this time. He just hoped it was one whose throat he had torn out.

II.
Her heels clattered down the empty corridor as she raced for the door. She hoped prayed that she would be able to get to it in time to escape and feed.

III.
He was thankful both that his guests enjoyed the ham that he’d prepared and that no one had thought to ask from whom he had carved it.

IV.
It was ’69 and he played it ’til his fingers bled – as did everything else.

V.
He tried to stop, begging his brain to just shut off, but he was stuck forever composing those tiny paragraphs of horror.

Rita is afraid her son is gay
but she can’t talk to her son about it
for fear of hearing the truth
so she speaks to her niece
in confidence
in a darkened room
with no one else in the house.
She admits
what she suspects
and does her best
to hold back tears
worried how she might break down
discussing this awful possibility.
She tries not
to think about how dangerous
it will be for her son
if she is right
and he likes his own sex
with his own gender.
She tells tales out of school
while her son
is in class
with boys
who her son
may secretly desire.
She wishes it were different
and begs her niece
to keep quiet
about her suspicions
which Rita prays are wrong.
She pleads with the heavens
to never know
for sure
that her youngest is gay.
She never discusses this
with her son
and he never discusses it
with her.

It would be better
if I knew what I wanted.
It would be good
if I found my joy.
It would be easier
if I understood myself
if I was ready for happiness
if I could imagine it
and its curves and dimensions.
If I could see it
I could become it
or help it become
or become becoming to it
and encourage it to come out of hiding.
If I could see my happiness, though,
maybe I wouldn’t call it an “it”
and could more easily identify it in a lineup.
I’ve seen happiness before.
I’ve met it.
I should be able to find it
or it’s ugly cousin
satisfaction.
Maybe contentment is right around the corner
just out of sight
but not out of my sight
since I can’t recognize the damn thing.
It. Her. Whatever.
If I could
hell, I don’t even know which “ifs”
will produce what “thens.”
I’m lost.
Ugh.
It might be better
if I could make some fucking sense.

I am shriveled.
I am shrunken.
I am made small.
I am short and sullen
and slanting towards a spitefulness
I do not desire.
I am sad.

I am dark.
I am dirgey.
I am dour and dank.
I feel foul these days
and wish no more.

I wish to be less.
I wish to be lower
lost
lifeless.
I wish to be elsewhere
where I could be large again
and not so shriveled.

It astonishes me
that I no longer have a bad back.
In my twenties
and into my thirties
I felt stabs
and stresses
and found weeks
where it was difficult
to stand as men do.

I first caught Bad Back
by carrying a heavy box
while giving a pretty filly
a piggyback ride.
Some years later
I biked an incline to aggressively
and in my midlife years
I lifted some tiles
tiny stone pieces
that laid me low.

Since then
I have suffered no strains
experienced no pains
have walked with no canes,
it’s all been good.
I have grown fatter
than ever before
found my musculature poorly defined.
I am twice the man I used to be
but my back seems not to know it.
For a decade now
it’s all been good.

This is the kind of thing
that when you put it into words
the universe
suddenly takes it as a challenge
isn’t it?

What have I done?

She was upset with me
she said
for not asking if she was all right
at the top of my call.
I assumed you’d be
I said
particularly after you proved perfectly capable
of picking up the phone.

She hung up then
so if she said anything smart in response
I did not hear it.
It was a bad day
in September
and I would not meet you
for three months yet.

Those three months
were not the best.
Our world
had suffered
of course
but between she and I
it all had turned sour.
It was like
on that bright day
when everything got dark,
we felt alone
we each thought about whom
we wished would comfort us
and it was not each other.

So we drifted
and spoke less
and became less courteous
or involved in one another’s affairs
until I became involved
in my affair with you.
That was in the new year
of course
and by then everything felt quite different
and I am especially happy
that you were all right.

When we marry, beloved,
let me be involved
when selecting the wedding dress.
I want to be there
as we decide
how to best show the world
that you will be mine.

It is vital that everyone invited
and anyone who will view
our photos in the foyer
for all the years to come
will see your beauty
just as I do.

I insist upon a well-slit skirt
to show off most of your legs
and a low cut top
so all can see you
as my captivating cleavage bride.
Smart and witty and compassionate you may be,
but those characteristics can’t be seen
from the back rows
and are not so relevant on our wedding day.
For that special occasion
we must discover
the perfect skin tight slut suit
so your fine features can be fantastically framed.

This next
is of utmost importance:
no veil.
Your eyes
– all of your amazing face –
must be visible to any who care to see.
Plus ass-less chaps, maybe,
for obvious reasons.
Your soul shines through regardless
but that body?
Everyone must know about that.

I wake up grumbling
remembering the darker images of the night
as I fought with my subconscious
and a rumbly tummy.
I am haunted
by yesterday’s meal
and try to settle my upset stomach
with leftovers.
Black Friday.

The remains of yesterday
are thoughtfully chewed
as I struggle to wake up
and go about my day.
I visit relatives
and find further food proffered
for me to finish.
It can’t go to waste
so it goes to my waist.
Black Friday.

Then there’s dinner
and the club
where out-of-towners
hand me doggy bags
since they can’t reheat
in their hotel room
but before we go all our separate ways
there’s a required midnight diner run
so we can talk further
and take in more comestibles.
Black Friday.

Leaving the place
we spy some girl-gaggle
hot young things
covering for each other near an alley
pissing away
too far from their next stop to wait.
I snort a little
but upon getting home
have to rush to my bathroom
to let it all flow out
steps away from an accident.
Black Friday
is not about deals being offered
but about the quantity
of what we can take.