jonberger

It’s on days like this
that I think of you most:
the couples
arm in arm
holding each other up
giving each other hope
believing in something greater than themselves
something enduring,
sublime.

I see people happy
in each others’ care.
Partners of all sorts ready to dare
heartily coming together to share
their separate lives
as a pair.

I see these warm scenes
on these cold Valentine Days
and I think of you
and how you would so joyfully
shit all over it
and on days like this
I am glad that you’re gone.

It’s on days like this
that I think of you most:
cold
bitter
dry days
when the skies promise nothing
but burden and ache
and the air is difficult to take in
and the land offers no purchase
for those whom wish to thrive.

There is no growth on days like this
no chance for respite
or improvement of conditions.
There is nothing
but hard truths
and painful revelations.

It is on days like this
that I most wish you were here
to help me bear these troubled hours
and give me something
to hold onto.

I used to send you personal poems
thoughts presented in secret
just for you
so you would know
just how I felt.
I see little point in
that little exercise anymore
for
every poem’s about you.
Every thing I’ve read
Every thing I wrote
all my recitations
of my recent thoughts have been about,
around,
regarding you.
– well, there was one about a porcupine always needling me… That’s about some other prick.

But the rest
the highs
the lows
the blowouts
and bursts of depression
these are art
that was painted on canvases of our past.
They’re all about you.

So take them as news
or a view into my heart
or head
or straight into my hard-on.
Every poem’s for you.

I’m trying to remain calm
to keep my cool.
I’m trying not to say what I’m feeling
mostly because
I don’t know what that is yet.

I know I’m pissed
and frustrated
and fairly unhappy
but I don’t have a handle on why
or what to do about it
so I want to keep it under control
until I’m more in touch
with myself.

I want to throttle something
but
it’s good.
It’s good.
It’s cool.
I can tamp this down
– I’ve got the experience doing that,
the years of sublimation
that is my birthright.
I can manage
just a little bit longer
until I understand what is going on
and then,
I can attack
with full confidence.

Fuck it.
WHO THE HELL
ERASED LAST SEASON OF MY STORIES?

You should come to my place.
It’s tons better than the last time.
The towels have all been cleaned.
Well, at least they were wettened.
I’ve changed the sheets twice this year
– and that’s calendar year!

I’ve made lots of changes
the feng shui is totally off the hook
with the windows whiter
the socks sorted
and all the rats relocated
to a better part of town.

I have new room-mates
with a better handle on rights to privacy
and property
and, I swear,
the only dirt I’m aware of
is in the pots.

Work has been done.
Maids have been hired.
Antiseptics have been used – liberally
and the roaches
know better than to crawl inside humans anymore
– especially after last time.

So
what do you say?

I’ve been following you
for some miles now
sweating after your bus
racing through streets
always in sight of the quarry
but always behind.

I’ve gotten just to your window
but never your attention.
I haven’t been able to reach you
to touch you
to say goodbye.

I have travelled much further
for far less.

At your event
you gave chocolate kisses
to anyone who asked.
You were generous.
You did not judge.
You were indiscriminate.
You provided your gifts
to all
because that is the kind of person you are.

Everyone is free
to receive your sweet kisses
as you are willing to provide that bounty
so readily,
so courteously,
so easily,
and it makes me
proud to know you
but also
very hungry
for I have quite a sweet tooth of my own.

It has been quite some time
since I have felt so stupid
so awkward
so ill-fit.
I am not used to this level of
fluster in my speech
or hesitance in step.
Is this what love feels like
or dementia?

I am slow.
I am stunted.
I am walking with a limp.
I am at a loss as to what to say or do,
what things to focus on
or what wars to wage.
I am unsure of so much
and I do not believe I like it.
No,
I don’t my think I like this much at all.

Unfortunately,
I cannot trust my own decisioning
because of what was said above.
Can you help me with what to do
or think
or say?
Please,
can you help?

The words were walls.
The words were buildings
different ones
that we each had entered separately
and locked between us.
The words we said were trenches
were missiles
were hurled at each other
not in anger
but in something more resigned.

The words were mines
silently laying in wait
waiting excruciatingly
for their time to unload
each vicious payload.
The words were dark.
The words were dangerous.
The words were deadly
and doomed all around them
destroying the structures we had hoped to build
in the paragraph above.

The words,
it seemed,
were all we had left
late in the evening
when all the more sensible options
had been exhausted.
At the end,
we had words.

I have had four regrettable mustaches
in my time
on this plane.

The worst
of course
was that thing I tried to grow
at fourteen.
That wisp of a curl
was something no one should have tried.

Slightly better
was some waxed monstrosity
in the early aughts
that made me FEEL sophisticated
but made me LOOK LIKE a douche.
I had to take out a loan
from the artisanal wax store
that I eventually defaulted on
three years later.

In my twenties
I tried a bushy pornstache
that presented an accidental resemblance
to a certain mid-century dictator.
I thought it made me powerful.
It did make me able to survive loneliness
for extended periods.

The best of the bad moustaches
though
was presented to the public
yesterday
after your offer to dress me
and clean me
and groom me
for a night on the town.

I do not blame you
for what was done to me
(by you)
but
even so
I do not believe I will be leaving the house again
this year.

Thank you
at least
for kicking
for kicking the Walrus off the list.