jonberger

Your plastic soul.
Your saline breasts
your blood red lips
your pleather pants
push-up bra
platinum hair
colored contacts over striped horned rims
your exercised arms
handing out forged credentials…

You are exactly who you have chosen to be.
Every aspect of you
calculated to culminate
in a version of you
far different than how you were born.
There is nothing natural in you
nothing unplanned.
You are a precise concoction
even your name had been falsified
for maximum impact.

You are a phoenix creation
flying out of the ashes of your former self
and you are gorgeous.
Not just because all your selections
have produced the finest results
but because you have realized
exactly who you want to be
and have painstakingly
gone about bringing it to life.

You have taken advantage of
everything the first world can offer
to improve upon nature.
You are self-made
society-made
and I am proud of you
and what you’ve done.

You
and your synthetic beauty
are welcome to be with me and mine
whenever you want
– presuming I meet your standards.

There is s perfect thing to say
under any and all situations.
It varies, of course,
as the right words cannot always be the same
(Though there are some phrases
like “if I told you you had a beautiful body,
would you hold it against me?”
that work mostly all of the time)
but there is the right thing to say
at a funeral
or a 45 year old’s birthday party
or a wedding reception
where you predict the couple will last
only six weeks.
Under those exact circumstances
there are words that will work
and we must merely find them.

I am a firm believer in communication
and have used my tongue
to get out of many a ridiculous predicament
and sometimes into a most interesting event.
I have used sentences as swords
and shields,
as spears hurled against far-off opponents
or whips to titilate, tempting teases into tenderness.

I love my language
and have faith
that we can use it as cure
as salve
as strategy to salvage
then strengthen
even in the most severe situations.
I can hew from the stones of vocabulary
what must be said
tonight
to ensure that we soon speak again.

There are actions
which you don’t want to take too soon
for if you are unprepared,
you risk ruining your future
with prematurity
but if you want too long
your opportunity might die
withered at your door
while your headphones
kept you unaware of the of your own doorbell.
Some things must be done
at their own schedule
in Cinderella fashion:
"Just right."

Some people understand this.
Some folks
live with that perfect timing
knowing when to speak
and act
and when to bring more water.
This is dedicated to my waitress.
This is an ode to Babs.

She is kind
and generous
an angel of mercy
in feeding me fries.
She provides
as only a goddess can
giving me what I need
offering provisions
before I disappear
into eternal skinniness.

I was taught
at an early age
not to shit where I eat
for diseases can be caught
and a variety of intestinal issues could result
but I’m sick of being passively voiced.
I want to shout out my feelings
to the highest busboy
and the lowest bartender.

I love her dedication
and her caring
and her knotted beauty.
I would offer her so much more than a dollar
for services rendered.
I would give her two dollars
– or even three.

But I know better
than to shit where I eat
and too many meals
have been served too often
by this blessed babe
this breathtakingly bounteous Babs.
I can only quietly accept
what she has to offer
which she does
so frequently
and so well.

I just hope
this can make up
for last night’s dine and dash.

These are the last Cheetos you will ever eat.
That the last Nutella Malted SuperShake.
You will have no more blackened steak, chicken fried
nor unprotected anal with Backdoor Angela.

You have to cut down.
Limit.
Put boundaries around everything
of which you once so freely partook.
That was your last cigarette
your last cigar
your last cigarillo.
No more bags of wine
for you
nor some dimebags
nor bags of DVDs of police procedurals
you couldn’t be bothered to watch
when they were new.

You must become new.
You need to change.
You’ve got to lose the old habits
and pick up new ones
so you can live longer
healthier
as someone else.

(After Daniel)

My balls
my sweaty balls
my sweaty shriveled balls
my sweaty shriveled hairy balls
my balls are purple.
My balls are out of whack.
My balls are producing much
of what is expected of them
– not that anyone appreciates it
or takes advantage of it.
Nobody sucks me off
is what I’m saying.

Nobody touches my purple hairy shriveled balls
or kisses them
or places moistened tea bags on them
or anything else I read about
in that soggy book I found in the woods.
Nobody uses my balls
for their intended purpose.
I keep hoping
keep striving
keep trying to get ahead
but my balls
and their associated paraphernalia
are in lousy shape
which sucks
and leaves us blue.

On our date
next week
which you will accept tomorrow
we will go to Amsterdan’s
a brunch place you’ll read about in the Sunday Times.
We won’t be able to get brunch reservations
– because the Times article was a pretty big deal –
but they’ll serve us at 10.30,
right before closing
which is pretty inconvenient
for your work schedule
since you were told to arrive at the crack of dawn
if you “want that promotion.”

You do want that promotion.
You don’t get it
and I won’t get what happened
when I call you for Round Two
the following Wednesday.
In fact
you won’t pick up the phone
the first three times I call
or the next twenty two.
It’ll be a bummer for me
but you’ll move on to more important things
until a month later
when you see the Times feature
about my postal incident
at
of all places
– get this – Amsterdan’s.

You’ll find it charming
because, as it turns out,
you’re something of a freak
so you’ll start writing to me
and volunteering for causes supporting my release
and trying to arrange regular conjugal visits.

I may rebuff your advances at this point
which only heightens your ardor
because of the aforementioned freakishness
and sets you planning a prison break-in
to either A) free me from my unjust imprisonment
or B) finally have a chance to get with me.

When it comes to that
and you enter my cell
and try to get me to enter you
and eventually
I do
and promptly fall asleep afterwards
do not
under any circumstances
try to wake me up to snuggle.

It’s important.
I can’t explain exactly why
but it is.

I’ve been feeling the need
for clean.
I’ve been trying to deny it
but the urge is getting stronger
don’t think I can stop it any longer.
when I look upon my filthy floor,
I can’t fight this feeling anymore.
I must wash.
I must sort.
I must toss and burn
and simplify.

Things have got to go.
Surfaces must be scoured
palates brightened
souls must be enlightened
in this discontented Spring.
I’ve got to let go
let loose
set free the dogs of chores
and begin to get things done.

I want to genocide the mold
burn away this old snakeskin
of an apartment
and let fresh growth grow
so that I have a stronger
healthier home
a newer home
with newer appliances
and the most recent fixtures
and maybe some quality antiques
from that place on Fifth
and
a better life
In my cleansed home.

The Buttons boy
was born
too big
for his shoes.

They fit
eventually.

Hey, get off.
Stop it, kid!
Quit it and clear the table.
Act your age.
You’re a grown woman
and
you cannot simply deny your responsibilities.
We said we’d clean this evening
and –
get up.
Get of me!

We are not the kids
who once met
in downtown clubs
with frizzy hair
and silly shoes
and laughter filling all our days.
We are adults.
We are mature.
We are responsible
and we have scrapbooking to do.

Put that back on, Terri.
I’m not going to lower myself to your level
or rise to the occasion
or get dirty with you
when we have so many dishes to do.
I mean really!

Quit this monkey business, girl
we have to get back to work
get back to the responsible sophisticates
we have become
and stop this immature
foolish
dangerous…
honey, my back’s gonna go out.
Let’s do this in the bedroom.