jonberger

Pretty sure now
that I’m done seeing Woody’s movies.
It was creepy what he did to Mia
and weird that he did it with Soon-Yi
and kind of rotten what happened with Dylan
– assuming it’s true –
but I could forgive all that.
As a white male jew
it is my privilege to forget all that
but I refuse to accept
the diminishing returns
of his formalist experiments
and pseudo-intellectualism
and just plain unfunny films.

He’s not a good man
we’ve seen that over years now
but I see no evidence
that he is still a good artist.
Perhaps he has no more creativity within him
after blowing his wad
on the kids.

It doesn’t matter how.
His crimes against nature
and morality and law…
I would take all of those
but for him to go back to the well
for Irrational Man,
that’s just bananas
and I cannot take it any more.

Woody’s committed
the one unacceptable act:
he stopped being great.

I don’t want to talk about the presidency.
I don’t want to talk about politics.
I don’t want to talk about what’s going wrong
and what you don’t understand
or what your guy is gonna do about it
– or gal
– or other.

I don’t want to get into an argument
or get into a fight
or get involved in mortal combat
or talk about the war
or the other war
or the other one.

I want some quiet time
with my stories
and my songs
and a peace of mind
and a couple of pieces of fried chicken.

And I don’t want to talk about the diabetes
and I don’t want to talk about the smells in the kitchen
and I don’t want to talk about the sores on my back
or my neck
or what the state of my health insurance is.

I don’t want to talk about state’s rights
or the state of the nation
or my state of mind
or high-minded politicians
– which is where, I think,
we came in.

I don’t want to talk
it seems
about anything there is
to talk about
right now.

I want
if you think we can manage it
just a couple of moments
of silence

or maybe the two of us grunting.

Really,
I expected better of you.
I didn’t think you’d just go for a pretty face.
Sure, he’s good-looking
and healthy.
Strong,
I’ll bet he could last more than three minutes in the sack
– oh. Thanks for the verification.
Is that due to yoga practice or crunches or –
never mind.

The thing is,
he doesn’t seem like he has the depth
the world experience
the suffering or complexity
that would make a compelling lead
in your story.
He’s a background character, Ronnie,
and you deserve a star.

I’ve made the case
in a couple of precious pieces
why I believe
you deserve someone as wonderful as me
but I never dreamed
that you’d bat so under par that –
yes, I suppose I did mix sports metaphors there
– because I abjectly refuse to encourage physical activity,
even in speech.
Anyhow…

He’s attractive
but he’s shallow.
He’s fashionable.
He’s a creature of comfort
and you, Veronica,
should be with someone
who knows misery
and knows how to produce it
in those around him.
You should be
with someone like me
not like
him.

What?
He’s rich, too?
A doctor
Without Borders?
You’ve got to be kidding me…
Look – never mind.

It was on May eightieth
during the last leap year
that Elsa
– the thirty three year old receptionist –
met Yakob
– a Lithuanian pedicurist –
who had only recently come to her country.

Elsa
– who worked for the state –
smiled at the younger Yakob
and invited him for a ride
on her beautiful balloon
which sounds more lascivious
than she meant
but because Lithuanian
is truly a far cry from English
Yakob made no inferences
from said invitation.

So they two
– the pedicurist and the receptionist –
took that fateful balloon ride
into the stratosphere
and became better acquainted
for a while
until the stroke of midnight
(and the eightieth
became the eighty first).

At the party
with the wine flowing
and the lights lowering
and your latest object of desire
passing by
only barely out of reach,
that is when I will talk to you.
I will get in the way
of your conversation
and initiate one of my own.

I will say words
random words
that have meaning
and perhaps, even,
the slightest bit of context
but words that will distract you from your goal
or remove interest from her eyes
or simply dull your senses
until senseless
and then
only then
will I have enough of you.

I am a mosquito
buzzing incessantly
incomprehensibly,
a vampire
stealing from you
your very flow,
a flickering light
unable to be blinked away.

I am a tricky monster
but I mean no harm. Please
do not hate me
for I have no intent to do you dirt, but
when you see me
at the party
and see me approach,
understand this, well in advance:
it won’t go well.

See you then.

Nobody gets it;
they don’t understand me.
I’ve got the skillz
the looks
and the opportunities just knock knock
knocking on my door but
it’s not the right time.
I’m not ready to be famous yet.
Not this week.
Not this year.

They look at me
no doubt
and assume that millions of fans
are simply waiting to find me
and
they must be.
They may not know
what they’re searching for
but the current political cycle
proves the public needs something
that they lack.
Eventually
that could be me
but not this day.
I’m not ready to be famous
yet.

Soon,
when I’ve made my peace
the public will get to experience me
just as they should.
When I am at the right point
in my life
all of your lives
will be changed.
Soon,
I’ll be ready to be famous
and then you’ll know.

Tell me what to do.
I am lost.
I am stymied.
I don’t know
how to get to the next day
from here
and I don’t know who
in the world
to ask
so I’m reaching out
to the wisdom of the ages
in this letter,
licked and stamped,
then set afire
on my roof
so the ashes can fall
and the smoke can rise
and the ether will experience my anguish
and understand what I need
better than I do.

Help me.
Make me sane.
Give me clarity.
Give me purpose.
Give me a solution
to what ails me
which, clearly,
has thus far escaped me.

I need an answer
from something.
Let someone direct me
somewhere
somehow.

Please
tell me what to do.

I had six hundred and sixty five
emails unread
when yours was added to the pile.
“Telling,” I thought,
before deleting it
unread.

I’m trying to simplify
seeking to make my life easier
by removing the impediments
that have left me low
in the past.
I’m trying to put you
in the past.

I’ve been failing
in this initiative.
I’ve failed six hundred and sixty five times
recently
but somehow
you gave me the resolve
to get tidy
and clean up my act.

I’d say “thanks,”
but I think it’s better
if I say nothing else to you,
so…
I’m gonna get back
to the purge.

There is something at the edge of your brain
tickling, teasing
reminding you
of something
that still escapes you.

It will become clear
soon, you sense
though you can’t explain
how you know that
or how long it will be
before you get some clarity
on this thing
that you’ve forgotten
or never knew.

What is it?
What’s missing?
What have you lost
or are about to learn?
What is going on
inside your head
but just out of reach
unable to be tasted
at vision’s periphery
still unavailable?

There are no answers
but at least
no more questions either
since you lack the information
to know what to ask.
That is something, but,
for the life of you,
you couldn’t say what.

You’ve been warned.
You’ve been told.
You’ve had explained to you
over and over
and OVER again
what needs to happen
– what you need to do:
get moving
get in the game
get the lead out.

You need to stretch,
they said,
you need to do more.
You need to do something!
You need to get out of the house.

And you open your eyes lazily
and you acknowledge the instructions
and you turn off the TV
and put on your shoes
and open the door on one side
then close it on the other
and you’re out.
You’re moving
you’re transporting yourself
you’re on to something.

You see the streets
and the clouds
and the sun burning down
and you feel the beat of your feet
as you pound down the street
and – are you melting?
You may be melting
into some puddle of sweat.

So you enter the cool shelter of the library
with its free flowing fountain
and knowledge dripping down every wall
and you wipe yourself down
and you head to the graphic novels
and you look at the manga
and you catch up on Ranma 1/2
as you find a seat
and expand yourself into a blissful state
of learning
about other cultures.

As you turn the pages backwards
acknowledging your accidental education
you grin and realize, "Hey!
Mission accomplished.
I guess I got in the game."