jonberger

If you can’t tell over the screaming of your muscles
begging for surrender
today is the day
that you have biked too much.

You have gone too far
depleted too many calories
from your system.
Despite what you wish
or remember
or believe is your capacity
you have done too much.
You are exhausted.
You are through.

You can stop
as you should have
miles ago.
You can take a break
and slow down
and take it easy.
You may think there is more to do
but trust me
nobody wants you to.

You have ridden
as far as your weary little legs
can take you
and then
a bit further.
You can rest now
please.

If you survive the night
you can go further
tomorrow.

There is a precedent for this
(there is a precedent for everything).
It is not the first time
that absurd people have made ridiculous statements
about horrific events.

This is not the first time
that senseless trauma
has left everyone stunned silent
with no words
to express their dismay
and yet
absurd people
everywhere
are nowhere near silent
expressing their important opinions
of the matters of day.

I have nothing new to share
about the current misery
or the last trouble
or the earlier issue.
Much as I would like to add
to the chatter
I have no fresh content.

Let me have a moment of silence
please
while we all take in
our latest tragedy
and let us all remember
how long a moment
might last.

I have a horrible fear of moths.
Their fluttering
hovering forms in the darkness
tortured my childhood time after time
instilling nightmares night after night
until I figured out
how to install screens.

I remember this demon creature once
perching on the wall opposite my bed.
I screamed as it watched silently
resting comfortably beyond my reach
defying gravity, logic
and good taste.
Frozen in the beast’s presence
I could not scream.
I could not even move
lest the monster destroy me.
I simply waited
through interminable hours
until the moth-thing had its fill
of my terror
and found another room
in which to hunt.

It took me hours to sleep
after this freak attack
and since then
since my first brush
with the specter of death,
my nights have been kissed with evil
and I have never been the same.
Eternally scarred
I wait in constant dread
of the assailant moth
returning
somehow through the screen door
and taking my place.

If you see me
someday
flapping on by
take care to be sure
that I am me
and not some devil doppelgänger
replacing me
and speaking well
of a thing as despicable
as a moth.

I read the ops today.
Oh joy.
In yet another attack against a killer
I read
that there are many things that kill
like guns.
I read that knives and hammers and sex all kill.
I suppose you could add to the mix
rope and bats
and Cheetos
but none of them exist to kill.

A hammer’s purpose is not to kill.
It is to put forceful weight on another substance,
usually for construction.
Knives are made to cut things
organic or no
living or not.
Sex does not exist to kill
under most circumstances
– though I would certainly kill for sex.

The purpose of a gun
is to shoot a projectile
and that projectile is meant
to run through flesh.
It is not meant to smash locks for to open doors
or to burst through the air to summon help.
Bullets are not meant to be shot in the ground to leave a trail
or past a piece of paper in the shape of a blackened man.
The gun
the bullet
and the explosion between them
all exist to damage the living.

I’m not a fan
nor am I a fan
of the writer
who believed that sex kills
even while trying to condemn a dead man.
Dude’s a jerk.
Maybe someone
should fuck him to death.

It’s been two thirds of a year
since you left
and I feel
I should miss you
more than I do.
I mean
I know you’re gone
and I wish it weren’t so
but I don’t regret that much
how you’re out of my life.
I was ready for you to go
in a lot of ways
and I’m kind of glad
it was you and not me
who ended things.
I’m just more comfortable with the way it all came apart.
I hope you’re happy
where you are now.
All things probably went
the way they were supposed to
eight months ago.

Sometimes
I wish I believed
that I had life-and-death faith
in things larger than myself
– though at my weight
there is precious little
larger than myself.

Still
if I were one to accept things sight unseen
if cynicism wasn’t one of my ideals
if I could absorb truth
instead of needing to understand it
if I were that kind of person
I can’t but believe
that I’d be happier.

Yet
if I were a believer
one of the faithful
one who accepted and absorbed
and swallowed whole cloth stories
of gods and demons
righteous and wrongtious
if I were that sort
what would stop me
from knowing
that only my way was correct
and all others must be stopped
and/or killed?

Perhaps
it is safer
to be one of the faithless
even if I am sometimes joyless.
Today
I feel I must believe this.

"When you have exhausted everything else
how many times
can you return
to the same river
to replenish yourself?
Eventually
won’t you be unable
to find anything fresh?
How long will it take you
to become empty
of what you most require?"

That question makes sense
in metaphor
but not in reality.
Your rejuvenation
occurs at the riverside, sure,
but the the water itself
gets replenished
by sources outside the human condition.

Despite what I may take
from the theoretical river,
the rains fall
and the water collects
and life-giving properties
are made available again
from the banks.
It doesn’t matter how often I lap at the lake.
I alone cannot steal its best properties.
Perhaps in metaphor
but certainly not in reality.

"That argument
clearly
would make any poem
pretty damned prosaic."

Sure
but how often has this been done before?

You had a dog.
I had a dong.
They didn’t get along
those two
and you preferred one to the other
so we parted.

The dog was young
but that was fifteen years back
so maybe you and your mutt are through
and you’re ready to give my dong
a good talking-to.

Your friends on Facebook are pretty hot.
Do you know them?
Can you share them?
Are they people you could introduce me to
I R L?
They seem really smart.

What’s your secret?
Can you show me
how to post
in a similar way
so your friends
are mine?

I really want to meet your friends
– but not in a really creepy way.
Just
could you tell me
how I can meet your friends?

I can’t do it.
Try as I might
however bravely I go forward
I won’t be able to finish in time
to get the grade
that will allow me to go on.
This is the end.
I’ve reached the razor’s edge
and someone’s getting cut
and all evidence
points to that someone
being me.

I can’t change that.
I can’t fix it
I can’t find a way around.
I’m going to fail
again
before I got out the gate
which really
is the easiest way to fail.

Congratulations
in advance
to me
for having succeeded
in nothing.