jonberger

Christ, you were hot back then.
You were so tough-looking
so evolved, compared to me.
You knew where the bodies were buried
and was vibrant enough
to have dug them in.
There was rubber in your moves
elastic in your skin
a hard shellac over your feelings
and product in your hair.
You were all right.

You were something, then
before years and gravity and weight
and death and life
pulled you so close
to those buried bodies
and you became monochrome
after such a colorful history.
You were amazing
before you got old.

Happy birthday,
big old girl.
Remember yourself
in the days you were impressive.

I think it’s over.
The revolution’s happened
and I failed to partake
again.
I keep missing
these important moments in history
seeing them from distance
or only noticing the write-ups
after the fact.

Wherefore?
Why do important opportunities
seem to evade
the faint of heart?
What is it
that makes
me able to miss events
occurring under my very nose?

I am at a loss
as to why
I am able
to escape exciting chances
under virtually all circumstances.
All I wanted
was a t-shirt from the thing.
Or a button.
Was that too much to ask?

You know you’re better off, right?
You get that his choice
was unwise for him
but the best case for you.
He unshackled you
from a life that would have been
by all estimates
disappointing, at best.
He wasn’t worthy of you
is what I’m saying.
He didn’t have much to offer
or at least not enough.
He wasn’t what you deserve.

You don’t get it yet.
I understand.
You feel down
because you liked him.
Maybe you were even tricked
into falling in love
but it was a mistake.
Trust me.
You could do better.
You will do better
even if you end up home
alone with your crippled cats
and important job.

I don’t think
that will be your fate, mind.
You’re due for better things.
Someone’s bound to see it
eventually.
But it’s not just that he didn’t see it
that proves you’re better off now.
That guy was a dud.
You’ll see soon
that you dodged a bullet
and then you’ll be happier
than he could ever have made you.

I got a hat
from a girl
whom I’ve known
for almost thirty years
though we only just met.
She threw it to me
at a show
because I’m special
but also
a pretty large target.

You might think this random
or strange to follow her for so long
or stalkerly
or simply unimpressive
that I got a hat in this way.
You might say
“but it’s a bucket hat. When
have you ever worn one of those?
When will you EVER wear it?”

Every day of my life
from now on
now that I’ve got it.
Thank you, miss.
It was a very meaningful gift.

I should be writing about my dad.
I have an occasion
and an audience
and some justification
to speak of this man
whom I knew for so long
but not so recently.
I should be thinking
about my ancestor
while putting his life
into some sort of perspective.
This is what I should be doing.
I can’t

or haven’t.
It has been easier
to not examine
too much of his absence
or his existence
or any other aspect of his era.
I have not been able to focus
on that fuzzy hole
near the middle of things.
Instead
I have found
innumerable ways
to look around it.

Perhaps
I will find some strategy
to consider that hole
directly
in the time that is left.
It is certainly possible
but also extremely unlikely.

I don’t even know
what we’re arguing about.
Frankly
I’m shocked we have to talk about it.
Let me break it down:
we didn’t agree we were exclusive.
No promises were made.
No coupons were exchanged.
I feel guilty
that you’re hurt, sure,
but am not prepared
to take responsibility for your feelings.
You invested in me
precisely what you wanted to
irregardless of what
I offered in return.

You had no reason
to expect anything from me.
We had no contract
nor rings on fingers.
Your expectations
were unwarranted
and, in retrospect,
a little selfish
don’t you think?
Who are you
to make these demands on me?

In fact
I think I’m pretty big
in not requiring an apology from you
for what you said after accusing me
of sleeping with your room-mate,
sister, aunt and grandmom
(only half of which were true,
I might add).
So anyway
I forgive you.
What’s for dinner?

I think we could do it.
You and I
I’ll bet
could become an amazing team.
Like Spider-Man and Iron Man
when they met the Wraith
or Hourman and Doctor Fate
like, every time they meet.
We could team up
and become more powerful
than our component parts.
Together, we could take on Voltron!

I can sense these things.
With my brains
and your good looks
we’d be unstoppable.
Oh, sexist? Right.
How about
with your body
and my looking at it for a good long time
we’d be
great?

I mean it.
I can tell
how fantastic we could be
together
if we can only overcome
all this sexual tension between us
– even if it’s coming from me.
It should be perfectly easy
to become strange bedfellows
if we take on everyone else
and join forces.

You know
for years
I have lived the open mic life
and encouraged everyone
to step up and sing a lead
or dance a step
or read a poem or twelve.
I have long upheld the principle
that anyone ought to have a chance
to express themselves
somehow
at some time.

I have found the exception.
You challenge my perception
of what is what
and how people ought to behave.
Should I redefine my beliefs
based on your example?
I’m still undecided.

It’s not that you’re bad
– although, good god,
you are QUITE bad,
whether in song or story
or essay or impression
or very recently
as a cartoonist.
But as I said
it’s not your awfulocity
that gets my goat.
It’s the sense of entitlement
you express
in every single solipsistic subject
you approach.
You think you have a right
to present your thoughts.
You seem to believe
that we could be interested
in what you have to say.

We don’t.
We have better things to do
than listen to your ill-conceived ideas
your expressions of arrogance
your unsubtle sense of superiority.
It’s a bitch for us
to be enslaved by your ego
for even the occasional instants
at an open mic.

I don’t yet believe
that the needs of the many
should silence the idiocy of the you.
I’m not ready
to have you stopped.
Perhaps in honor
of that kindness on my part
you would be willing
to shut up for a year or two.

It was just when I was first leaving New York
that I first discovered Avenue A.
The summer before college
I was spending all hours I could
biking around the city
exploring
learning about the place
I was about to abandon.
I had ridden to the neighborhood
of the high school I had recently left
and then I went east
and I had found something
completely different.

Avenue A had a bohemian character
full of small shops and hoboes
and overgrowth.
I’d been on St. Marks’ Place
only to discover it stopping short
into a park
that seemed to go on.
It all seemed magical.
It all seemed scary.
It all seemed… new.

I didn’t know what I’d found
and swore to come back soon
but I don’t think I returned
until I followed Brenda
and discovered AntiFolk
six years later.

Of course, I’d already been visiting Marcos
my junior high school friend
on Avenue C years before
so I guess my Loisaida memories
were even less significant than I’d thought.

It’s not too late.
There is salvation available
still
for you.
It is all wrapped up
in how you choose
to answer the question.

The query today
as it is every day
is one of identity.
What are you going to be?
If you choose
you can maintain the status quo
and remain the creature you’ve always been
or you can flip a switch
or zag a zig
and begin your transformation
into whatever you will next be.

It is not a required chrysalis.
You may have no need of salvation
and are quite happy
in the current state of your life.
It is possible
you are not ready
for the work that goes into
the transmutation from lead to gold
or the new you from the old.
Perhaps you are not quite so bold.

And perhaps
you will eventually decide
differently.
Perhaps one of these days
you will come to the conclusion
that it is time to change
and you will learn
what it is to be created anew
whether as a phoenix
or a dragon.

The decision is yours
every day.