jonberger

What happened to us?
And when did it happen?
How did we transform a day dedicated to peace
to a testimonial to the ways
of the warrior?

What made us think this was a better subject
for celebration?
When did those ideals change?
Why have we updated our beliefs
and in such a mean manner?

Why would we think the killer
is more important
than not killing?

And more important:
What in Ares’ name
would make anyone think
This was good day
to shut the doors
of my favorite froyo shop?

This kind of thing
makes me want to beat someone senseless…

You can shut up now.
Really,
it’s OK.
It’s no big deal
if you opt to take this moment
to close your mouth
and cease emptying out the toilet of your mind
into my ears
and the ears of all the others around.
It’s fine if you just shut down the conversation
and shut off the spigot
and shut the hell up.

If you chose to close it down
and stop this downbound train of thought
that’s barreling towards your beating
it would work out well for all of us,
don’t you think?
You can be quiet
and we’d all be better
for it.

Well?
What do you think?
Is it worth considering,
my suggestion?
Oh, and before you respond:
Don’t.

The bacon didn’t work.
The anti oxidants didn’t work.
The probiotic regimen didn’t work
and the poems did nothing.

Love didn’t help
nor prayers
not well-wishes
nor donations to the appropriate associates
of angels and aliens.
Nothing changed the outcome.

Not the peppers.
Not the ginger.
The aluminum and the zinc
and the superfoods
and all the black market remedies
and super science solutions
all were useless
in the face of fate.

The outcome was undeniable
despite everything that opposed it
– even the bacon.

You should write something.
You’ve been quiet for a while now
and you could be using your art
to process your experiences
and think about what’s happened
and what hasn’t
and what you could do
to move things from one category
to the other.

You used to compose like the wind
(if the wind
would produce words
with great frequency
and ease).
You used to weave weirdness
out of anxiety
and shame
and pain
and puns were used but sparingly.

You used your life
as bricks to build something new.
You used to live
for times like these.
You should write about what happened.

You should do something productive
even now.

It sucks that you lost your job
she said
but at least you have your health.

I almost asked
if she actually said that
but I knew she did.

You have your health
she said
and you have your writing.
You have your health
and your writing
and you’ve got some family that loves you.

And no one else
I thought
but
instead of speaking
kept my counsel
and encouraged her to continue.

Your health
she said
your words
some family and friends who love you
and the property from some dead white man.
She was right.
I was not forsaken.
Not entirely.

Health, wealth, words and woved ones
she said.
You’ve got all that
and that swinging dick between your legs
which
small as it is
she added
is your cosmic key to the kingdom.
That thing lets you in
just about anywhere.

So maybe it’s not so bad
she said.
Maybe
I agreed.
Plus
she said
there’s a girl around here
who’s willing to talk to you now and then.
Shame about the job, though
she said.

I looked at her for a minute.
What job?

I am sick to shit of the advice
and the coercion
and the bullying I’m receiving
in this time of life.
Don’t tell me what to feel
or how to act
or how to be.
Don’t!

I do not want to hear from you
that it’s all right to cry
to feel
to let it out
and be open about my emotions.
Don’t tell me what to do!

Don’t try to make me care
just because society
and genealogy
and my fucking therapist
expect me
to have a breakdown
because of
the matters of the day.

I will not cry at your behest.
I will not feel anything
simply because you told me so.

I will not feel at all
because I am not that sort of person
and you’re seeking to force me
to behave
in a human way
is prejudiced
and oppressive
and making me feel very much down-trodden.

Some of us –
the abandoned
the emotionally crippled
the sociopaths
do not care
when bad things happen
and losses are found.
Some of us are too bad to cry.
Why can’t you understand
and simply let
we unfeeling monsters be?

He would have liked those gloves.
He might have worn them out
to the park
on the days before the snows set in.
He would have thought wistfully
about the days of the snows
in the old lands
from whence he came.
He would have talked about those lands
without anyone really listening.

He then might have asked after my day
and listened
– really –
when I told him about skating past the boss
leaving forty minutes early.
He would have laughed at the story
and groaned at my puns.

He would have offered me soup
then made me make it.
He would have invited me to play rummy
and revised the rules
to fit his cards.
He would have thanked me for the visit
and sent me on my way.

He might even have seen me to the door
quietly waving
wearing his new gloves.

Thanks.
I appreciate your kind words.
He was in pain; it’s over now.
It’s for the best.
It’s no big deal.
He’s in a better place.
He was old.
He was weak.
His suffering is over.
His whining is over
so MY suffering is over.

It’s cool.
He was ready to go.
He was unhappy.
He wasn’t looking forward to the winter
and the ice
and the Christmas Carols.
He was done with the day to day
and is probably at peace.
He was ugly
and we don’t need to look at him scowling
anymore.

It was pretty quick.
It was painless.
It was as perfect an end
as you can ask for.
Yeh, it’s a shock
but the muffin basket you brought
makes it ALL worth it.

Thanks for coming
and sharing your words
and thoughts
and advice
and
thanks.
It’s over now.

Is this really the best way for me to allocate my time:
waiting on this line
to be put on a list
to receive the latest technological innovation?
I could be doing so much more.

I could be masturbating right now.
I could be at home
with my hand
and some handsomely framed shots in my spank bank.
I could be alone
and entertained.

I could be writing the Great American Novel-la
composing something important
– or something shorter
like a Grand New York Sentence.
Or maybe a Good Bronxite Phrase.
I could occupy myself
with better activities than I am.

I could be eating a Chocodile
or eight.
That product hasn’t been available
for fifteen years
– which sounds criminally neglectful –
and now that they’re back 

I could just run into a store to get my fill.

I could be done with those delicacies
in the time it’ll take me
to turn the corner
and reach the velvet rope.

What kind of choices am I making?
Why am I here
instead of anywhere better?
What makes me stand here
slowly
inching ever forward
until I get a newer iteration
of a device I already own?
What am I doing with my life?

Perhaps
I’ll be able to answer that question
someday
with the help of Eight Plus.

I don’t know what you heard
or read
or misconstrued from misunderstood context clues
but I’m not talking shit about you.
I’m not talking about you at all.
I haven’t given you so much as a thought
since we ran into each other last month.

So… OK, yes,
last month
you DID find me crouching
in the bushes outside of your grandma’s rest home
but that just happens to be
where I do all my best crouching
so…
a coincidence.

Also a coincidence?
Those poems that you think are about you?
They are not.
I might have lifted some small number of facts
from our time together
and used then to flesh out a piece or two
but honestly,
I don’t know if I could say which data
comes from us
and which comes from all the other women I been bangin’
since we went out.

I’m not writing about you.
I’m not thinking about you.
I’m certainly not caring about you
anymore.
I don’t know
what makes you think
I’m not over you
– even if you did see my new chapbook
on the billboard
across from your boyfriend’s place.

That title isn’t even about you.
For Janie Smith Who Fucked Me Thirty Seven Times and Then Dumped Me for a Richer Guy?
It could be anyone
and it is.
Not you.

Wanna buy a copy?