jonberger

Don’t
don’t worry.
Don’t take it too seriously.
I didn’t mean
the words that I said.
They were unintentional
accidental.

It was a blurt.
What I said
was like a sneeze
a blink
a fart.
You can’t control it.
It just happens
sometimes
and you can’t really decide how
or when.

That doesn’t make it real
or sincere
or anything you have to consider
in the bright light of morning.
Just
just forget it.

It wasn’t a big deal
and I didn’t mean it.
I didn’t mean those words I said.
I take them back.
Please
please forget I said anything.

I’m sorry, Martin.
I just wrote of another
with your name
but you should have been first in my heart,
first in my thoughts.

If there is a Martin in my life
it should be you.
You took me out to shows
let me play in your garden.
We were close
before you died.
I should have paid more attention
to you when alive
and certainly now,
even if it is somewhat his day.

I erred.
I will not make that mistake again
of ysing that name in vain
unless I’m hammering some theses
or watching Bad Boys.
Otherwise, it’s all you, Martin.

I swear it.

I would like to say
you inspire me
you bring out my best
you improve me
as I wish to be improved.

I wish I could say that
and could, I suppose,
if honesty weren’t my personal policy.
But the truth
is something else again.

You do not inspire me
except in certain ways.
You bring out my beast
and make me improvise
in ways I’d never have thought I would.

You
your presence
your existence
turn me into something new
that’s true
but I’m not proud of it
and cannot thank you
for what you make of me.

I am sorry, Martin.
You deserved better.
You have a day named for you
which is something
but it is not enough.
You deserve more.

Children write compositions
in your honor
and people cite you
as a paragon of virtue.
Songs are written
about your fight against privilege
and your war against
the zombie menace.
Your name is bandied about
early and often
as testament to your ok enough in history.

Your greatness is assured
but you deserve still more.
You deserve a first rate poem
by a first rate poeter
not some half-assed
post-thought out
premie piece like this.

I am sorry, Martin.
Maybe next year.

There comes a time
when a call
must be heeded
and things need doing
and a man
must stand up
– unless he’s a woman
in which case
I guess
he stands up
but more femininely.

There will be a day
when decisions must be made
heroes will be forced to rise
and actions’ll have to be enacted
all over the damned place.
I see such a day coming
and I will martyr myself
for the cause
if no one else is willing to step up.

So
if you’ll excuse me:
Somebody ordered too much
and that ice cream sundae
will NOT eat itself.

Be more transparent.

Be more consistent.

Be kinder to animals
except emus
who know what they did.

Be less willful
and woeful
and definitely less wary of purple leopard skin styles.
No animals were hurt in their designs
– really.

Be more prepared to help others
who meet at least two
of the following criteria:
wealthy
attractive
drunk or otherwise malleable
a cast member of Star Trek: Next Generation.

Kick babies much less often
unless they asked for it
by wearing a Kick Me sign
or a shit-eating grin
or asking a question.

Make resolutions in private
so
when I eventually break them?
No transparency.

This is the day.
It’s going to happen
I know it will.
Today’s the day
I’m going to get that job
meet the girl
change my life.

It’s all gonna turn around
and it’s starting today
– I know it.
I can feel it in my bones
in the air
in my hair
– everywhere!
It’s obvious.

Today is gonna one eighty.
Today it’s gonna switch.
Today I’m gonna improve
update
activate.
I’m due for a change
and it’s going to happen to me
today
assuming I can meet it halfway
and work past this hangover
and get out of bed.

Screw it.
Maybe tomorrow.

If you go to my bathroom,
don’t try to lock the door.
It doesn’t lock.
There is no lock
just some remaining splinters
where a lock used to be.

There was a moment
a few years back
with furry handcuffs
and uncomfortable doorknobs
and an angry incident that no locksmith could resolve.

The mirror might have been smashed at the same time
or it might been cracked later on
when a particularly ugly guest
stared at it a mite too long.

There is no toilet paper, either.
Just some wrinkled circulars
from now closed markets.

The tub has a slow drain that
ironically, can’t hold water very long.
The water is not hot
but is sometimes dirty.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know
about the bathroom.
Just give you a warning
or two
or eight or –
oh?

You’ll hold it?
That could work too.
Yeah,
that might be for the best.

She said
Can you get me a puppy?
and I looked around
because I didn’t think she was talking to me
because I didn’t know who she was
and I wasn’t sure what she meant.
Is that, like, a sexual term?
I asked
and she looked at me like I was the crazy one.

A puppy, man!
A puppy!
I want a puppy
and I thought you could be helpful in that regard.

Again,
I looked around
because I didn’t see how I
had been entered into this conversation.

While you’ve been looking at me slack-jawed,
she said,
a better man could have provided me with three puppies.
Are you a man at all?

…Yes?
I replied.

If you get me a puppy,
she said silkily,
I might think upon you
very kindly.

Look, I said.
I will get you a puppy.
I’ll provide you with what you need
support you in all your endeavors
if that makes you look at me that way again.
If you’ll let me,
I will get you all the puppies in the world!

Then go,
she said.
Go,
and get me my puppies
– and come back quick.

And I did.
Go, at least.
I left
on my nominal puppy quest
and ran back home and locked the door
because that bitch was a dog.

John Hall
who is a hero
refused to write a poem called “Tits.”

I do not blame him
but I do think
this is evidence
of his weakness of character
and his willingness to bend
to the fates
behind the Crypto-Judaic Conspiracy
and their insistence
on destroying Christmas, privilege
and apple pie.

In my day,
everybody had a poem called “Tits,”
and though most of them were simple
(like “Tits. Tits! I like its!”
or “I want to put your breasticles
around my testicles
and then drive North and Westicles”),
and many were racist
(like “Black tits. Black tits! Better than yellow nips!”),

I wish to go back to those times
and live when we were all better men for our poetry.
Our poetry
and their tits.

Do not damn John Hall, though,
for his fear in facing facts
and refusing to fight the furious.

Let him be
even though he abjectly refuses
to write a poem
about my favorite subject
with a title
using my favorite word.