jonberger

The next year
when I returned to my grandparents’ place
Walt was hanging out with Sven
the jerky kid
even though his name was fucking Sven
for fuck’s sake.

Last year
when Walt and I had been hanging out
reading Beetle Bailey and eating peanut butter sandwiches
– something my parents never offered me –
I’d confided in what a jerk Sven was to me
around the pool
and just in general
and how I didn’t feel comfortable around him
and Walt had agreed
and offered solidarity
and we barely ever dealt with jerky Sven at all.

But that was last year
and Walt was older
and Sven seemed cooler
and it looked like the two of them
had become pretty much inseparable
and when we were all at the pool together
it kinda seemed like they were talking about me
quietly, giggling
so I found better people to hang with
(and by better people
I mean my grandparents
and Beetle Bailey).

The summer went slow
and I didn’t enjoy it
quite as much as my previous visit
when I made such a good friend
that I knew I could trust
for all the years to come.

I just read a fuckton of poems about sluts
because the Internet.
So many
are defensive about being sluts
are accusatory
are self-righteous.
None were directional.
I don’t know where the sluts are
and the poems I read didn’t help me
to know how to even identify them.

Where are you, sluts?
How can I find your very sweet butts?
When will I find your whyfores and whats
and can you ensure you aren’t just mutts?
(Not that there’s anything wrong with ladies of the canine variety.
Many a man’s heart can be captured
by the wiles of a bitch
– just not me.
This doesn’t make me a racist.
If anything; I’m species-ist.
All right;
moving on…)

I would like to find the sluts
to know them
to encourage their behaviors and unique mating dances
so, if slut poems cannot bring me to them
I offer now directions to find me.
I am Jon
and can be seen evenings in the South Bronx
near Hunts Point.
Please call.

When we speak of presidential candidates
that are lying racist fascist fat fucks,
we compare them to the worst creatures from our imagination
like, say, a monster made of shit
bound together by the tears of the evicted
and the anal blood of the oppressed.

When we refer to real estate moguls,
we think of predatory bigots
who redline and deceive their way into destroying neighborhoods,
finding strategies to demolish what was
with a promise of something better,
something that never happens to arrive.

When we imagine fat white men,
men with inheritances,
men from West Point,
men who have married again and again,
younger and younger,
men who have repeatedly made mention of the sexually evocative nature of their children,
men who bully
men who attack
men who are awfully defensive
and clearly exaggerative of their achievements,
when we imagine these men,
we rarely think kind thoughts
– unless we resemble them.

When we discuss comb-overs,
we invariably think “loser.”

Like the painter with no eyes
or an actor lacking tongue
or a quadriplegic racer
or some flightless waterfowl
I am missing something.

That thing feels important
in its absence
but its identity
is difficult to pinpoint.
Perhaps
it is you?

Rather,
I think it’s cumin
but I may be wrong
and it could be something else,
another element that could possibly complete me
leaving me, finally,
after so many years,
a creature of taste.

I’ve been meaning to talk to you
about this important issue
for months now.
The time has never seemed right
but I think
we can wait no longer.
This is a problem
that must be addressed
before the sun sees its shadow.

You never ask me about Kruger anymore.
I’ve remained silent,
maintained mum
but it’s been too long.
You never ask
about my old friend
and how he’s doing
or what he’s up to.

I get it.
Life goes on
and people grow apart
but it’s been a long time
and Kruger was always so polite to you,
sharing your Mad Dog
and borrowing your floss.
He always had a kind word
and even cleaned up his sick
that one time at your grandparents’ place.
Did the Lieutenant Colonel find any?
Whatever.

Kruger was cool.
Kruger was fun.
Kruger was something special
back in the day and
it strikes me
if nothing else
as odd that you can’t even be bothered
to ask after him
even after all this time.
It makes me wonder what you think about him
or me
or what kind of sociopathic monster
you might be
under that collar and rosary.

So if you could,
it would make me feel better if
at some time
you made the effort
to throw an occasional
“How IS Kruger?”
my way
and I’ll even give you an answer
if he ever takes the time
to speak to me again.

When the old man was done raping
and killing and thefting
and generally having a blast,
he wanted a place to refresh himself
and restore his good humor
so he went to his old home
which he had razed decades before
and searched for the old tree
that he had long ago cut for lumber
and he found the stump.

Why he’d left the stump
might be a story for another day.
Perhaps he’d taken all he could from the tree
as he’d taken all he could
from his three wives
and four children
all since disowned.
Perhaps the stump was left
as a reminder
to all who could see
not to mess with the old man.

He saw the stump
in his former back yard
and he said to himself
(and maybe to the stump, too),
he said: “This
will be a good place to rest
my weary bones.”

And it would be poetic if he died there and then
though it wouldn’t be just
because this old man,
he played bad,
and didn’t deserve a poetic ending
even if it was just an excuse for his ending.

In any event,
he didn’t die
and the stump wasn’t actually a giant venus flytrap
that swallowed him alive.
The old man rested
found himself rejuvenated,
got up
and achingly went on
to rape and thieve the world some more.

The old man probably had a name.
Fuck if I care enough to tell you.

The house across the way
has a ceramic owl on the roof
to scare off birds
too stupid to know
that that owl is no predator.

It can’t fly.
It doesn’t hunt.
All avians are safe
from its painted talons
and immobile teeth
but the local creatures
are too dumb,
numb from always being birds at prey
to realize they could perch and shit
with impunity
at the house across the way.

I am no stupid bird
and from my view
I see full well
that there is nothing to harm me
on that other roof.
That owl will deal me no damage
I know
so I foresee no risk
in donning cape
and jumping from my roof
over to theirs.

The owl will not stop me
for I am no stupid bird.
I am
something else again.

Everybody’s talking ’bout first world problems
and third world problems
and problems with four letter worlds
like Mars and Uranus
but I’ve been considering recently
the underworld problem
and i think I’ve arrived at
just the way it should go down.

Now I’m not one for God
or Buddha
or Satan the Sixteenth
but I think I’ve thought enough
about the future
and I’ve come to some conclusion
about my own personal afterlife.

I want to come back
as a crispy duck pizza
which I have never tasted
but think sounds pretty sweet
– or savory.
Whatever.

The important thing is
I’ve subscribed to my supralife strategy
and I know what form it should take:
a slice of something extremely delicious
and rare.
That is how it should go down
immediately after I do
for the last time.

There is a buzz
seeking incessantly
to escape from behind my lips
beneath my teeth
beside my tongue.
A truth wants out.

I do not understand
this thing that needs to fly away
leaving my body
and entering the air.
I do not know
what needs to be said
but
it is pushing against my mouth
making me hum
and dance
and try to eject it from me
forcibly.

Someday soon
my teeth
will be unable
to keep the secret.
I can tell
it is only a matter of time
until my tongue lets loose
whatever it is
I will have failed to contain.

I am afraid of that moment
but also
somewhat excited
to find out
just what it is that I’ll say.

On the grounds
of Bauman’s torched General Store,
where you could buy candy or creams
many years back,
stands a park.

Hans
once living beside the burnt store
in the abandoned town
is the man who built it.
He no longer lives
among the ghosts in Weme,
Minnesota.
He has found another place to rest.

Some still visit
this secret village
left forlorn these last hundred years
hoping to find some memories
or history
or something that attaches them
to this isolated land.
They leave,
disappointed.

The few who remain
are buried
discorporeal
haunting this empty town
wishing there was more to keep them company
but an empty post office
and a long-torched store.