jonberger

Nope. No ma’am.
You’re not gonna do it.
You are not going
to be able to make me cry
again.

Whatever tricks you have in mind
whatever treachery
I’m ready for it.
I’m prepared.
I’m strong enough now
emotionally equipped
to take anything you can dish out.
I’m waiting,
ready to react
and respond and
if necessary
to reattach any parts
you ought break off of me.

I’m on top of it.
I’m on guard against you now
and however you play it
I can handle it.
You’re not gonna make me cry again.
Try it.

We’ve both said a lot of things lately
and I admit that much of it has been unpleasant
but I’ve found another way of thinking
and I wanted to express this idea
before it slipped away.

You taught me something important
through all this
and I very much appreciate
what you’ve done.

It has been a rough series of months
I’ll allow
but I think I’ve become sturdier
because of it.
I have grown necessary callouses
and stretched muscles
I hadn’t considered before.

You hurt me
a lot
but the hurt
has made me hardier
and that’s all because of you.
I know things
about myself
and it’s only through this experience
with your multitude of lovers
and being locked out of my apartment
in the dead of winter
and having those thousands lifted from my account.

Al right
it’s slipped away.
Fuck you very much.

There is a story
about a regal knight
who slew a dragon
and saved a maiden
because of his faith
in his Lord.

It is based on a true story
except the knight was just a soldier
and the dragon was his lord.
The maiden was the lord’s lady
and the soldier’s faith
is what got him killed
with no help at all
from the God in question.

The hero became a saint
either way
so in that regard
at least
the versions match up.

There is a moral here
probably
about truth and legend
and Liberty
and of the three
which you should expect
to eventually go down.

James Earl Ray
died on April 23
at seventy.

Martin Luther King, Jr.
died on April 4
at thirty nine.

Billy Joel
back in May of ’77
was right.

Yes, I know.
Cervantes and Shakespeare
died the very same day.
The greatest writers
of these great languages
passed synchronously.
I was aware of that.

I have an alibi.
I was not on the continent
nor on the island
at the day in question.
I had no knowledge
of the whereabouts of the men
nor did I have any known motivation
to commit either crime.

It is even hearsay
to suggest that foul play was involved.
I want nothing further to do
with this conversation.
In fact
for future reference
regarding this subject:
no comment.

Five were accused
of initiating the Natchez Dance Hall Holocaust,
none found guilty.
The fire
was an accident.

But it could have been stopped.
Lives could have been saved.
Fuel had doused the walls
which fueled the fire
and windows had been boarded
eliminating escape.
Safety had been diminished
to increase profits.
Security was erased
for possible prosperity.

Over two hundred died.
Three funeral homes could not
manage all the burials
and many were tossed into mass graves.
An unfitting end
for those that simply wanted to dance.

Billy Shakes has been dead
for four hundred years
but you wouldn’t know it
from all the talk.

Everybody knows his name.
Everybody knows his work.
Every student curses them both
if they know enough English.
Shakes thrives
in every form imaginable.
His online profile dwarfs mine
despite being so long gone.

Personally
I never saw the appeal.
I like a good concrete story
not with all those allusions
and falutin of the highest order.
It just gets tiresome,
you know?

Those statutory scenes, though
and the cosplay in the comedies…
those seem pretty punk.

Fine, then.
Maybe there’s something in Shakes
for just about everyone
but I do wish he’d ease up a bit
release his stranglehold on theater
and let me get my plays produced
– once I write any…

That dream wasn’t about you.
You barely even appeared in it.
I wasn’t focusing on you
or what you said yesterday
or what it signified
in any way at all.

I haven’t been plagued
with thoughts about our conversation
or going over it
in consciousness and out
ever since.
Even to suggest it is absurd!
Why bring it up?

No,
the dream was coincidental
and had nothing to do with us.
With you.
With penis.
With anything!

I don’t know why we’re even talking about this.
Why are you harping on the dream so much
when it’s so obviously unimportant?

Oh, there is no WAY
you said "cream" and not "dream."
Don’t you dare accuse me
of Freudian Hearing!
Look,
maybe we should just change the subject,
all right?

So…
penis?

You smug little thing.
You didn’t think it could happen to you
did you?
You thought you could keep it up forever
and never get caught?
You honestly believed
your fraud would escape everyone’s notice?
Dummy.

It was just a matter of time.
You left clues everywhere
fingerprints on every substance
all pointing towards your guilt,
all showing you
for the short-sighted moron
you’ve clearly proven to be.

It’s out now, chump.
Everybody knows what you’ve done
and the court of public opinion
has judge juried,
finding you guilty
of treachery.
The subsequent sentence
is obscurity.

Good going.
You could have avoided this
by being honest all along
but you didn’t have it in you,
did you?
DID YOU?

No.
You did not.

My mother is cleaning out papers
rooting out the parts of the past
that no longer interest her.
She is showing me
reports from my high school and before,
evidence of an education
I cannot recall.

"Do you remember drawing that?" she asks,
and "How did you come up
with that idea for a project?"
I have few answers
and little interest.
This is her moment to explore
and review history.
I don’t want to do that now.
I just want to enjoy the now
and watch Youtube.

"Did you know
the first Youtube video was loaded today
back in 2005?"
I say.
She tries to ignore me
as I have done with her.

But her topic is more interesting.
She is doing primary research
into my yesteryears.
I want to know more
but don’t want to address it today.
Still
I worry
that she may trash that past
if I don’t express enough interest
immediately.

"All right,"
I admit, "Let’s take a look.
I will allow you
to show me more
about me."