jonberger

Laid in dirt
lies a humble bird,
wings without will
to do what birds are meant to do.
No movement
flicker or blink
can be identified surely
as the bird’s
or that of the wind.

Don’t be dead, little creature.
Live a little longer.
Gain strength from the soil
and become something more,
something that can do
what birds do.

Breathe, bird.
Grow.
Leave this filthy ground
and head to the heavens
– and fly further,
safely, free.

Little bird,
do not stay here.
Find a better home
that beside the road,
crumpled, broken.
Get moving, small thing,
please.

Silently
light reflects
off the plastic bottle
close to bursting with ice.

The bottle glints
glows
gazed upon from a distance.
The sun keeps focus
on this container,
contents melting slowly,
transforming from something
near breaking
to something
newly consumed.

Before then,
there is potential in that receptacle.
The bottle nears danger
as the ice becomes softer
and air attempts escape.
Someone
may end up sopping

But that moment
is yet to come.
Now
the substance in the bottle
slowly, secretly, transmogrifies
within its chrysalis.
preparing for its eventual shape.

There is something
we must discuss, John,
a thing we must resolve
before the night goes any further
and we do something
that one of us will certainly regret.

John, I love you like a brother
of some distant cousin but
you have to stop showing up
to my home
uninvited
and then going off and sleeping
with all my girlfriends.

Please
I know from your status updates
that you can find ladies all on your own.
You don’t need to poison my rivers as well.
Keep your flow
to yourself.
Take a lover
separate from mine.
I know you can do it
and I think you know it, too.
Leave mine be.

Leave me be
and maybe
at least some of the time
you could wash the sheets.

It’s strange.
When I thought you were wearing boots today
I thought you were cool.
I thought you were hot.
I thought you were a rebel.
Seeing the hint of a Doc Marten sole
made me imagine you as some sort
of hardcore figure
ready for anything
just waiting to kick ass.

I thought you were special.
I thought you were powerful.
I thought you were pretty, self-possessed and important.
Then you lifted your skirt
and I saw the sandals underneath
and the socks under them
and everything changed.

I had misunderstood
what I was seeing
but it all became clear
and nothing was the same.
I am afraid
we cannot speak anymore,
you hippie freak.

To Laura
the high schooler
who found herself
too cool to date a college man
by the name of Jonathan Berger
all the way back in the day:
I am passing your old school
I think
since you never actually invited me to visit.

You would always be delivered to my campus
since our mutual friend would consistently
offer you rides.
Like a wish
you would just appear before me.

I liked you so much back then
though I’m not sure I really knew you. Certainly you
didn’t get the chance to know me
– unless you really
truly did understand me
and that’s why I was rejected.

I’m glad we were able to stay in touch
after you proved more interested in other boys
and I found other girls to obsess over:
older girls
girls in my grade.
I got over you
years and years ago
but
when I see your exit
on that rarely-taken road
I remember you
and am transported
to long ago lands.

I am thinking of you
and wish
like those far gone days
you could simply appear before me
and I could see you again.

There is a wasteland before you
filled with the young
the exuberant
the inexperienced
people that know nothing of your history
your years of wisdom on the subject of high school
despite being absent from high school
for forty semesters
minimum.

You recognize no one
even amongst the multitude of alumni
invited on this special day,
an occasion
with no instruction
no explanation
no provisions made available.

You stand in the center of the lobby
waiting for anyone
to offer some sense of order
in the midst of this chaos.
Perhaps there is a guide
a teacher in this place of education
who can show a returning student where to go
or what to do
or how to get some of the pie that had been offered.

You are alone among crowds
just as you were
as a matriculate so many seasons past.
It is a familiar feeling
in this familiar place
where you feel so very alien.
Where are the activities?
Where are the admission tags?
Where are the appetizers?

There is nothing here you recognize
any longer.

Wish you were here.
You’d like it
I think
if you had the chance
to know it
the way I do
with the same memories
and experiences leading to them.

If you walked a mile
in my sloppy sodden shoes
you’d see this town
the way I had way back when
and still do today.

Maybe with telepathy
you could understand
what I feel about this little village.
You could get a sense
of how I loved its people
and buildings and roads
and if you had spent some time
at my height and weight
you could feel just what it’s like
to stride these streets.
I think you’d truly experience my past
in that way.

A time machine might work, too,
but,
then again,
that sentence applies
to almost everything.

That last one was kind of creepy.
It was a little unsettling.
It was – I know I just said this
but I really can’t emphasize the point quite enough –
creepy. It was creepy
and, by extension,
you were creepy
for presenting it.

It wasn’t the words so much
which, even in context,
seemed pretty sweet.
Rather, there was a subtext
suggesting you hadn’t ever met
that object of desire
whose praises you so virtuously sang.
It was those elements of voyeurism,
of stalking,
of the encouragement of rape culture
that made the piece
somewhat distasteful.
Creepy, even.

Now,
I’m not saying you’re a creep
– yet –
but this is duck-talking,
duck-walking territory
and if you are putting such effort
into things that smack of the creep,
then, well, I’m not sure what else to say

except “You’re a creep.”

The eye follows you across the room.
When you enter
it seems impossible
to avoid staring.
The drool,
probably, I could better control.

You are stunning tonight
however
you are stunning every night.
Every time you let me see you
I can do little else.
I could imagine
how this might weigh on you.
I don’t want my attention
to leave any sign of strain
on your lovely face.
Still
I seem unable
to help myself.

If it’s not too much trouble
could you just let me stare at you
a little longer?
If that is too much trouble,
then could you maybe provide
some pictures
of you at sleep?

This can’t go on
this thing we do.
We chase, circle,
square dance our way through moves,
hoping someone else
will slip first.
We race to blame,
playing the game,
accusing, suspecting
always suspicious of who did what,
who is behind it all,
seeking our defeat.

It cannot continue.
We don’t have it in us.
Eventually,
someone must fall
something must give
somehow, somewhere,
somebody will break
so some other folk can win.

But
considering how long we all played
and what bad sports we have been
it is so very likely
that when anyone wins
we all shall lose.