jonberger

The flap of skin
left from yesterday’s laceration
is hanging on my finger.
It will not stay there.
I will lick it.
I will worry it.
I will tear it off
soon.

It cannot be helped.
This will happen
whether I plan it or not.
Eventually
the finger will end in my mouth
and my teeth will toy
with the skin.
Even as I try to stay away
it will be like the pink hippo
you’re supposed to ignore
but becomes the only thing
in mind.

I will eat my scar
and swallow the scab
It is fated.
I might as well lean into it
but treasure this healing wound
until I rip it out again.

All the clubs we used to go to are gone:
The Horny Unicorn
The French Rejection
Firm Britches and Drunken Pony.
The restaurants we loved
have changed, too.
Tender Pi is now Graham Cracker Station
while Jack’s House of Meats
is now DBA – Formerly Jack’s House of Meats.

The neighborhood is all different
barely recognizable
even from last year.
Transitions are everywhere
and it’s hard see what once was.

And you’re not here to see it
just another one of the revisions
to this poor town
abandoning its past
every day
a little bit more.

She said she wrote a song for me
but when she played,
I could make barely any sense of it.

The song sounded very pretty
but the words were murmured
and left me little
to chew on.
In turns histrionic
and churning,
it was a curious piece
one I understood
much less than I would have liked.

I like it, I said
and I really appreciate
the effort you went to.
And you got the central allusion?
She asked.
I replied of course
and I hugged her
and we spoke of other things
until we stopped speaking at all.

Since that day
I have been unable
to remember the song
and wish
I had found
more opportunities
to hear it.

There is a blessing
in knowing when something
is well and truly done
a quest completed
a battle lost.

There is comfort in getting proof
that it’s all over
and nothing more can happen
no last chance change
can result in anything different.

It is good
to be out of the middle area
and realizing
it’s all right to quit.

The packages are sent.
Everything of yours
is out of my house now:
the sheets
the scents
the senseless arguments
and a dried turd that the late, great Marty Whiskertons left
during one of those weekend visits
before he passed away.

The deliveries should arrive within the week.
Until then
our relationship is in some limbo
not entirely dead.

Or better:
fully dead,
declared so by the best authorities
but not buried. not just yet.
The coffin’s nail
will be hammered
only when you sign off
on the package next week.

You can keep my stuff.
I don’t need any of it.
Besides,
lately you’ve only had
the worst parts of me.

Flowers, candy and strip-o-grams haven’t gotten your attention
nor compliments or complaints.
So far, you’ve yet to bestow even a smile upon me.

You remain adamant against my advances
so since force has found itself fruitless
I shall attempt other approaches.
I shall be like water
flowing past your defenses
squeezing my through whatever
you choose to set against me.

I am sneaky.
I am small.
I am subtle
and swift
and you won’t be able to defend against everything
I toss your way.

Nothing will slow my circuitous steps
ever closer to your affections.
You cannot stop
my insidious trek
towards your heart.

I think the research is paying off.
I’ve been staring at your pictures
studying your comments.
I’ve read your poems backwards
and found the secret messages
hidden therein.

I think I’ve uncovered it.
I get what you’re trying to tell me
in your positions in the photos
and the reversed word choices.
You want me back
don’t you?

You’re waiting for me
and my big gesture
like in those movies we used to watch
when I had the remote.
You want me to prove my love
with some symbolic act
like coming to your wedding
or breaking into your midwife’s hut.

I get the idea
but I haven’t come up with the right thing
that will bring you back to me.
Maybe
if I listen to your outgoing message again
something will come to me.

You’re not even trying.
Come on.
This seems like something you spent
just a few minutes on before class.
You can do better.
Why not try?

You think
that you keep flinging poop against the wall
you’ll end up Jackson Pollack?
Nope.
Not gonna happen.
He had
a much wider color palette
and, you know,
his work wasn’t crappy.

Make an effort.
Take a stand.
Try something a little more concerted
and less lazy.
Work at it.
You might be able to do something good
if you try.

Or it could fail.
Who knows?
But I’m pretty sure
you’re not getting anywhere
with your current work ethic
despite what the labels are saying.

When you challenge yourself
to keep things interesting
be sure that
you don’t lose the original goal
of the challenge.

When I was a competitive eater
I could swallow more franks
than many other boys
but I couldn’t taste them.
All I got out of the experience
was a lot of meat between my lips
which was only so satisfying after all.
I gave up the race
and found myself enjoying the meals
much much more.

When I said I would read thirty books one summer
I started looking for shorter book
thinner volumes that would make me finish fast.
My attention on the words diminished
and my desire to expand my horizons
quickly proved less important than my desire
to expand my book count.

I can’t tell you the maximum number of times
I’ve masturbated in twenty hours.
I can’t tell you how many copies of Vulture
I scrounged from bargain bins
or how many 1991 pennies I collected that summer.
Do not let the OCD overtake you.
Remember your purpose
and do not deviate.

There was a lion.
There was a mouse.
Innovative and nimble,
the mouse and his associates
disrupted the power structure in the forest,
dominating in ways
the lion,
powerful, monolithic and imperial,
could not imagine.

It wasn’t long
before the mouse & silent partners
had agreed how best to manage
the incorporated forest
withholding both veto and vote from the poor old lion
who
without a position in the new regime
spent his days
reliving his glory
and asking for change.

Moral: Speed is of essence (so don’t complain about what I do in bed).