jonberger

On this day of dissemblance,
who has entered my skin,
remaining incessantly in recliner
blanket lain on legs
as he sleeps away this sunny day?

In the last hours of the month
where last year
my father died
is he now wearing me
as his disguise?

I am sedentary.
I am sleepy.
I am alone inside
when the world is bright and bustling
just out my window.
On this day of the dead
I feel possessed by his spirit
weak and weary
with little reason for it.

I am haunted
by the body of my old man which,
for a guy who didn’t go in
for such things
is a pretty good trick.

Hydrox was the first.
Hydrox was the motherfucking first.
Oreos are four years younger,
dumber and more rehearsed.
but Hydrox appeared in stores first.

Elvis got his act from Jackie Will.
Elvis took his schtick from Jackie Will.
Son, when Jackie quit the stage,
the King, too, had his fill.
since Elvis stopped so soon post Jackie Will.

Swamp Thing and Man-Thing fight it out.
Marvel and DC fight it out
but well before each of them
was The Heap and there’s no doubt
that he’s got them both beat in a rout.

All good jokes debuted on The Simpsons.
Ahead of your songs were Smokey Robinson’s.
If you think you’re original, you will not for too long
since your best thoughts first came from other’s tongues.

Oreos came out long past Hydrox,
Oreos followed four years post Hydrox.
Better to perfect your plot then be first out the box
like how Oreos wasted poor Hydrox.

I’m sorry you’ve got the cancer
that your girlfriend left you
that your mouse had a miscarriage
and your cat had cirrhosis.

I feel awful that your last eighty submissions got rejected your plants were neglected
your mirrors unreflected
and your journal projected
digitally across town.
I’m sorry that you wear a frown.

I apologize that I was two hours late
that your porridge is too hot
that your leftism is just right
and your car payment was due tonight.

I get that you’re going through a bad time
with the blood clots and the bad dates
and the frustration with all of the modern world
and the job where they don’t want you cursing profusely at the children.
I see it’s a bad week for you
and again
I’m sorry that I was late
but that doesn’t mean
you can move in with me.
Not now.
Not ever.

See:
you’re just too much of a downer.

I thought It was a butt dial
but it wasn’t.
She was calling me back
letting me know
how she’d changed her mind
that she wanted to see me
even for the little time that was left.

She was ready to tell me
how she’d been thinking a lot
and she’d missed me
and was ready to try that thing
If suggested
though she refused to use its name.

She admitted she was wrong
about some things
that she had a ring to show me
other than the ring of the phone
that I’d opted to ignore
and waited for a message
that would not arrive
for many years to come.

She had things to tell me,
she did,
but I played the odds
and decided it was a butt dial
when in fact
I was just making an ass out of me.

John S. Hall, whom I do not stalk
(no matter what his staff may say)
just published a piece
wherein he mentions
a Dolphins Rape People bumper sticker
which seems a little mean-spirited.

How would dolphins seek acquiescence?
They don’t know our culture,
our laws
or even which country’s borders they swim about
(Dolphins certainly knows nothing
about ending sentences
in prepositions
unfluent as they are
in proper English
anyhow).

Also
dolphin culture is probably
still blissfully unaware
of American literary great
and generally tall guy David Foster Wallace
who published a collection of essays
called Consider the Lobster.
And no dolphin
I am sure
could suspect that a former girlfriend of John S. Hall,
Casey Scott,
once kept correspondence with
David Foster Wallace, pre-suicide
– for, intelligent and civilized
as dolphins may be,
how could they imagine the tangential
coincidental relations that we humans occasionally conceive?
It is the value of human ingenuity itself
that allows me to imagine
these curious connections.

I did not know about Casey knowing Wallace,
by the way,
because I’m stalking John S. Hall.
That’s just what the dolphins
want you to think.

Pretty sure you didn’t mean to call.
Pretty sure it was a butt dial.
Pretty sure you’ve got better things to do
than reach out to me
after all this time
if only to say hello
see how I’m doing
take my temperature.
Pretty sure that by now
you know better.

I’m pretty sure
your showing up suddenly
on my phone like that
was some kind of accident
like how you entered my life
and how you left it.
Pretty sure
Everything about you and me
was inadvertent
slipshod, unnecessary
and easily fixed.
I am entirely sure
that you and I were fixed
about six months ago
and nothing
about your tiny attempt just now
to ring me up
could change that.

I’m pretty sure
that we were
and continue go be
done.
But if you call me again
and leave a message?
I’m pretty certain
I’ll call you back.

Lookit that:
some fat old guy
in the back of the room
dancing like a maniac
cane in hand
fist in air
fighting for breath.
He is something else
– something laughable.

Doesn’t he see
that’s it time
to remove his dancing shoes
and sit in the audience
a respected elder?
Can’t he understand
how sad it is to struggling
to find some long-lost youth
that his bespectacled vision
is probably too poor to spot?
When will he get
that his time
is in the past
now that he’s an old-timer?

I hope he figures out his place
and position sometime soon.
It is an embarrassment
to view him out on the floor
trying to regain something
he can never possibly hold
and his steps
are really lame.

Riding past the old strip
just before Halloween
it was like I’d seen a ghost:
pale white and beautiful
your blood red lipstick
a scar across your mouth
your shock of gold
ringlets cascading upon your dark high collar
I spied you from a distance.
You didn’t see me.

I recognized you immediately
though you looked nothing like you did:
all in tattered black
some priestess to the gods of goth
I thought you’d forsworn
just as I had forsworn you.
You hadn’t crossed my mind
in years
and then
there you were
crossing my path
like some familiar of the night
cursing me
with your glory.

God,
you looked so good.
I couldn’t say anything to you then, Em.
It was too soon
and I was too afraid
but that was years ago now
and I still troll the strip
in hopes of spotting you again.
It’s coming up on Halloween.
Will you be back?
Please be back.

We sold the house today
the place he lived his final years
the place he chose to die.
He liked it there
in the dark cramped home
he’d shaped
from the remains of his life
in those latter days.

He appreciates
being able to just walk out
to leave the building
though he rarely did.
He kept his door unlocked
so as not to be troubled to tend it.
The floor was cluttered
between Maria’s visits
whose number it took some weeks
to find.
The books that were left
were well-thumbed.

He liked his home
for the last several years
with his bending bed
and stained comfy chair
and it was good for us
to have him so close.

The new owner
we hope
will love the old place even more
than he did.
I pray
she keeps it brighter.

The next piece I’ll present
uses the rhythm of Sinead,
the spirit of the Boss,
and a couple of lines
cobbled from Crenshaw and Carl.
A couple of other lines were taken
from Brookes and Barry
and a bit from Babs, to boot.

It took some of its assonance
from Moore
and a little lilt from Lesse.
I’ve put in a taste of Max
and a couple of Ray’s banned lines
somehow shine through.

There’s a sprinkle of David
a touch of Kilian
a dollop of Steve
and an occasional flavoring
of everybody’s favorite Paul.

Some shade from Stanley
and a kiss of Declan
run throughout the piece.
There’s some obvious influence of John
and John – and,
of course, Johnny.

I hope you like the piece.
It took a lot
to piece it together.
It’s hard work
but rewarding, too.
It takes a village
to write my poetry.
Thanks in advance.