jonberger

Violet looks at you quizzically,
as if you’re going somewhere.

You gaze at Violet wonderingly,
knowing she’s going many places.

She’ll probably be on the road in minutes,
her shining mane flowing as she catches a ride out of here.

You have no idea where she’ll go next.
She may not either,
but you’re sure adventure’s coming.
A fiddle by her side, leather on her back,
tie-dye in her bag,
the world is hers as long as she wants it.

"Get that look off your face, boy.
I’ll be back in no time," she says.
You doubt you’ll ever see her again.
You hope you’re wrong,
but you don’t think you are.

Violet is too big for your world.

You ask for her autograph,
which makes her snort,
since you’ve known each other
all your lives.

She doesn’t see how serious you are.
You don’t know if you’re experiencing prophecy,
or just being foolish.

She laughs and then scrawls on your pants.
You know you’ll never wear them again.

She’s gone and a part of you is as well.
Obviously.

We never spoke honestly
and by “we” I mean me.
You may have been as honest as can be
– I’m not in your head.
I’m in my head all the time,
and I can tell you I was not honest
– certainly not enough.

I did not speak the truth
when you asked me what I wanted.
I played easy-going
but I never am.
I am hard-going
and anxious
and snappy
and this almost certainly played into
why I am your ex now.

If I could have spoken the truth,
perhaps you would not have lost patience with me
so quickly.

I hope that is true.
That would give me something to shoot for
with someone else.

I’ve got a sleep mask that changes everything.
I can sleep through the night now.

I don’t have to see all the ridiculous lights out in the city;
I am blind to everything I need to be.

It is wonderful:
the world is limited to what I need it to be
which is nothing.
I see nothing now
and I can live with that.

When I wake up in the morning,
I don’t know if it’s noon or nine
or near three AM.
I don’t have a clue until I take off the mask
and look at a clock.

The mask turns everything around for me!
Damn, I wish there were sponsorship opportunities
– let me shill for you guys.
I’ll say whatever you need.
I love ya’ll!

Summer simmers. Summer steams.
Summer stares at you, expecting you to stay situated, knowing that heat rises
moisture dribbles, drips, drains away, back to the river,
where you can go to see the sea wash all your water off. You can’t have it,
since Summer steals it, sneaking sweat off you,
precipitating perspiration’s disappearance.

Autumn anticipates absence, but offers abundance in the interim.
Autumn is easy. Autumn experiences entertaining escapades!
Autumn is all about awfully enjoyable execution of effortless actions.
Autumn falls into fun, frequently failing to flop. Fall is all about
getting around and loving it.

Winter waits for you,
warning you about moving.
Winter quietly advises against it.
Winter sits in silences, icily wondering if you’re going to try anything
knowing how hard it is to move, to get around in his months.
Winter lays a withering gaze your way, willing you to recognize it ain’t worth it.

Spring sings, swings and springs again! Spring spectacularly builds up
all the way to the top. It can’t stop, Spring can’t, and it goes until it hits a wall.
It’s wonderful, that time of year is. There’s nothing to fear when Spring is here.
It’s all joy for girls, boys, and all others under the moon. Soon everyone
will be under the sun, too, since Spring loves you.

Schwervon! were the band of the week
and they were touring sporadically
but their awful cat needing watching,
and I was just the sort of guy to do it.

When they got back from the UK,
they offered me, among other goodies,
a sleeveless Union Jack shirt.

It was a Medium.

I haven’t been a Medium
since I was quickly growing out of children’s sizes.

“Thanks!” I said.

I tacked it on my wall,
in the hopes of eventually slimming down into that size.

Even when I lovelorn lost scores of pounds,
that shirt couldnt fit,
though I came closer than ever before.

It’s a lovely shirt.
Since it’s a gift, I can’t bear to part with it.

Schwervon! left town a decade ago
and I’ve had to paint my apartment
so it’s off the wall now.

I don’t know if I should put it back up,
as further inspiration,
or if I should give up the ghost.
I’ve lost weight in the last few years
but I’m not close to the size of that shirt.

Is it time to Brexirt?

When I lost my Cousin Ted,
I lost his wife Beverly at the same time.

She didn’t die, but she developed severe Alzheimer’s
after a COVID infection that killed Teddy.

It was really rough for that family.
I never got to see her after that.
In the short term, visits weren’t allowed,
and by the time we could have gotten to her,
I’m not even sure where she was living.

She’s probably gone by now.

Beverly used to be a poet.
Not necessarily my kind of stuff,
but we used to be able to share that side
of the universe.

There aren’t many in my family
that share the artistic bug.
Bummer to have lost one.

Also: bummer that I’m taking to saying “bummer.”

Buddy, I’m telling ya:
clean me or kill me.

It’s been years now.
You got me over half a decade ago.
You’ve been using me day in, day out.
It’s a lot of miles, a lot of water you’ve put through me.

I get your logic: “Water’s clean; he must be flushed through a lot.”
But you’ve also put a lot of your saliva into me, and your germs.
There’s plastic residue.

Just wash me out, man. It’s time.

I know there were two of us at first.
I’ll bet you’re sad you lost my sister-in-arms.
I know I am. When we were both around,
I wasn’t so overtaxed.
Now, it’s all the time with this mouth of yours.

Clean me or kill me, kid.
If you wanna toss me, that’s good, too.
Recycling’s a fine fate.

I’ll be put to good use.
Get out there again in a new stream sometime soon.
I’ll be clean there, I can tell you that one for free!

So, look.
What’s it gonna be.
I don’t need an answer, but you need to make up your mind.
So get to it: clean or kill.
Come to a conclusion, all right?

"She’s in love with the man she always wanted to be"
the song goes, but the song doesn’t end.
The song never ends.

The thought completes later, with a word that is never said.
"…come." she whispers, hoping this completes the ritual
but finds no change
no transformation.

She is the same.
She is always the same.

The song remains the same
despite the change
and things go on
as normal.

I was sitting in the Arista office for no good reason.

I mean, I knew a member of Arista,
but I wasn’t a member. I had no official justification for being there.
I certainly had no official justification
to kick someone else out of the clubhouse.
So though it was technically true
that Eddie Cheung had no business being there, either.
I had no right to be the one to tell him to go.
Pots and kettles and all that.

I could see why he would feel angry at me for embarrassing him.
Were I in his shoes, I’d have felt humiliated for being kicked out,
and probably sought revenge. I can’t say what I’d have done.

What Eddie did was follow me after school.
I was with a bunch of friends,
so it was pretty brave that he tapped me on the shoulder.
When I turned around, he punched me square in the face,
breaking my glasses in two.
I stood there shocked as he walked away.

He wasn’t a threatening kid. I’d have jumped on him,
but some other guy had suggested a day or two before
that Eddie Cheung was a black belt
and I thought maybe it was unwise to mess with him.
If I’d thought about it for a minute,
I would have asked why a black belt would have
a) lacked the restraint to attack me on a street corner
b) just punched me and not done something more… martially artistic.

Anyway, he attacked me after I’d given him shit.
Probably should have been the end of it.
Except I was angry at him for embarrassing me.
More, I was angry that my glasses were broken.

So I did the chickenshit thing and reported him to the school.

He agreed to pay me back for the glasses
and he never did,
which is probably just as well.

I shouldn’t have been the dick in that situation.
I just didn’t like the dude.

My mother’s continued survival is a blessing
that I take for granted.
I should not.
She’s already survived my father by four years
and promises to continue this trend for some time.

I spend good time with her
but I don’t know if I express how appreciative I am.

I certainly do not when she’s yelling at me
to slow down on the road.
Then, I wish her an early stroke
so her tongue stops wagging
– but those are isolated instants.

More frequently, I wish her well,
but I don’t know how much I say it.
Perhaps there’s a way to say it to her.
But that might be too much to expect
of a grown son.
Who can say?