jonberger

Frank O’Hara died at forty
and forty three years later
his final home was mowed down as well.
His East Village loft was is gone
like a sand castle on a Fire Island beach
washed away by morning tide.

Frank didn’t much believe in
landmarking buildings.
He believed in progress
though progress
is what brought him low
in the form of a war-born jeep.

Then, perhaps
would Frank be pleased
how now
across from Grace Church
there is little memory
of him.
a man
now dead
far longer
than he ever lived?

Please disregard the last message.
It was nothing important
and said nothing of consequence
and should be ignored
by any means necessary.

The words were poorly chosen
and did not reflect the reality as felt by the speaker
or the hearer
or anyone else
who might have experienced the message
or overheard it
or smelled any reference to it
from the corner of her tongue.

The message should be erased.
The thoughts should be excised.
The concepts should not be considered.
Just forget it.
Delete it.
Drop this discussion
and get rid of the message, sound unheard,
please.
PLEASE!

What message?
What am I talking about?
What are you talking about?

Oh.

Never mind.

She told me not to touch her head
that she didn’t like it
which made me think
there might be something in her past
that we should talk about.
But she didn’t want to talk about it
so I didn’t touch her head.

I really wanted to though.
I wanted to cradle it
and hold it
and hold her
for hours on end
exhaustingly indifferent to her wants and desires
which might have been the point.

So I respected her wishes
and kept my hands to myself
while hers
roamed.

Was I rewarded
for my restraint
and was it the better path?
To this day
I do not know
because, see,
I really wanted to touch her head.

So she was giving me the eye
and she was kinda cute
and eventually
near the end of the band’s set
she “tripped” into me
and said sorry
and told me her name
and smiled with her hand on my shoulder
and I smiled with my hand on her hand
like a gentleman should
but I quickly excused myself
because Katz’s was nearing closing time
and it was more important
that I get the chance at pastrami
than get the chance to get laid.

She seemed disappointed as I headed out
and pouted a bit
the next few times I saw her
at various midnights
in various clubs
but
when pastrami is that good
priorities sometimes
must get rearranged.

I made a promise to myself
some time back
that i would never
sleep with a married woman
again.
I decided it was not fair
to all the women
who had kept themselves available
in anticipation of my touch.

I swore
once
that I would eat no pizza
that was not made at Sal’s
or later
at Sal’s and Carmine’s
after they expanded the business.
It was my favorite slice
– it still is –
and I didn’t want to dilute my love
with a lesser pie.

I decided long ago
that I would shave my head
if I ever found my follicles were floundering.
That day came by
years and years
and years ago.

I have taken many oaths
on many subjects.
I have declarations…
more declarations
than you could imagine
and I’ve broken most of them.
The trick
is never to speak them aloud.
Keep your promises secret
so none can hold your feet to fire.
These are rules I set
at the beginning
and when I betray them
no one will know.

How’d you kill it?
Was it with a brick
or a knife
or your hands?

How did it feel
to take the life
from something before you,
something that was fighting
however slightly
to live
while you were electing an opposing option
and winning?
What was it like
to extinguish?

Did you feel power?
Joy?
Elation
as you closed in on primal matters
and arrived somewhere near godhood
as you controlled life, death
and destiny all at once?

Was it good?
Was it bad?
How’d it go down?
How did you do the deed?
How did it die
– or was it a she?

I saw The Passion with a girl
– a girl for whom I felt
a certain amount of passion –
but between the floggings
and the dialectics
I found little opportunity to express it.

I saw Toy Story with a girl
whom, it turns out,
was simply playing with my affections.
Eventually
I got left out in the rain
forgotten.

I saw Battleship with a girl
who saw through
even my most ironclad of alibis.
One pensive look from her
and I was sunk.

I saw Joy over Christmas with a miserable miss.
I tried to see Girl, Interrupted but the phone kept ringing.
I saw The Other Woman with another woman
and tried to catch The Big Chill on Netflix
but only got the cold shoulder.

I keep trying to go out
for a dinner and a movie
to enter some darkened door
with some dame or another
but each and every time
it appears I’ve only arrived at
the final engagement.

If you hadn’t closed shop
when you did
you’d still be closed
by now.

The neighborhood couldn’t sustain
so many businesses
in such a small vicinity.
The industry
didn’t have enough municipal support
to continue indefinitely.
Stan would still have quit
to move to Krakatoa
leaving you without anyone prepared
to train any new staff
and receipts would have dropped
drastically.

Your grandparents
would have still required more of your time
during their divorce
and the volcanos and storms
would have ruptured the block.

Nothing could have saved your business
even if you had kept at it
and not quit
like a quitter
so sleep easy.

Yesterday
I had my first taste
of blue velvet cake,
and my life is forever changed.

She handed it to me
on a plastic plate
that was found
on the side of the room
and she smiled.

I ate softly
in the center of the room
with no one
paying any mind.
We talked
and she explained
the origins of the cake.

I didn’t care
about what she said
but was captivated nonetheless.
I wanted to focus
on anything other
than the corpse in the coffin
at the opposite corner of the room.

She offered
something other than cake
yesterday
when my life was changed
forever
but
she had little to do with it.

How’s the new place?
Has your roommate killed you in your sleep yet?
Have you found your books rearranged?
Have you found your toothpaste squeezed strangely
or most of your milk drunk?

How’re your bank accounts?
Does your cat seem more jumpy?
Have you heard crawling noises in the night?
Are there smells you can’t identify?
Spells you’ve never heard?
Curses against gazelles
in any form?

What’s it like in the apartment
with that colorful man?
Has your roommate done anything to you
that requires a code?
Can you blink it in Morse?

Is everything OK?
Tell me:
you know I only want the best for you.