jonberger

I doubt it’d be as easy
as you seem to think.
You keep singing your Paul Simon
thinking of how simple it would be
to brake up.
You envision, I think,
a yellow brick escalator
as you ride your purple polka dotted unicorn
into some serene sunset.

I don’t share your vision.
All I can see
are cobblestones of discomfort
were you to ever leave me,
the suspicion that nothing after
would be right – not for a long time.

I understand how easy it might be
for you and me to sever,
how often you wish it were so.
I get that it would be easy
for you
but I don’t think I’d ever get over it.

So you can try any of those fifty ways
that Simon says
if you feel it necessary.
Please believe, though,
I will fight you as long
and as far as I can
to keep what I treasure close to me.

Poop Face tells me to take it easy.
Poop Face wants me to chill.
Poop Face makes many requests of me
that vary in tone – but not frequency.
Poor Face commands, like royalty.

Poop Face orders.
Poop Face demands.
Poor Face insists we do the can can.
“I can’t!” I say.
“Please stop,” I pray.
Poop Face continues, and gets her own way.

Poop Face. Poop Face. Poop Face, Poo.
I say she is quite wretched; boo!
Boo to you, you Poop Face, you!

Thanks.

I keep trying.
I keep failing.
I keep hoping
that the definition of madness will change
and my doing the same thing over and again
will prove brave and wise
when I finally double down
and reap hideous rewards
for this same old shit.

I keep praying that this time,
it’ll be different
and something new will happen
and I’ll be better
and results will occur
that have never occurred before
and I will succeed
and they’ll all be sorry
and I will have won.

Over and again
I try
I strive
I climb
and I fall.
It’s wrong, I know.

One more time…

The new phone
I so recently bought
was so wide
so perfectly thin
that it bent
resting in my pocket.
This latest technology
on which I spent
several hundred samolians
lasted days
before failing an important test:
the ability to remain safe
when threatened by my clothes.

I am disappointed by the preciousness
of my twee purchase
and astonished by this advanced degree
of planned obsolescence.

Or perhaps it’s just as I’ve been told
over and over again
that some things
are just built too big
to be comfortable.

Right, ladies?

I liked it when you were calling me.
I liked it when you laughed
all the time
in my presence.
I like it when you bought me presents
– small things –
just because it was our Quarter Year Anniversary
or the thousandth time we heard that Billie song
or it was Thursday.
I liked it when you kissed me.

I liked so much of our time together
and
I know I didn’t say it enough
and I know that I wasn’t reciprocal
and I know that I wasn’t expressive enough
never was too good at telling you what I liked and how
and when
but I liked being with you.
I liked you
a lot.

And I don’t like what happened
and I’m not happy with how I acted
and I don’t like the person I’ve become
in your absence.
Worse, I don’t like who I think I’ve reverted back to
this small man who
if you were still talking to me
you’d realize you never had good reason to like.
I don’t like what my future holds.

But
I still like thinking back on our times
at the diner
and the theater
and park
and
I just liked you so much.

She asks me to write a poem for her
and I said I’d try
which made her smile
shyly
and made it seem
like it was something
she was looking forward to
which made it something I was looking forward to
since her smile
is nice.

What is not quite so nice
is the challenge before me.
How do I write a poem for her
when I have already written approximately
seventy nine sonnets
thirty eight ballads
twenty two odes
and a hundred and forty five dirty limericks
to her
about her
next to her
all while filming her
for further inspiration?

This poem must be sweet
and I have some of those
in the canon.
It must be innocent
– and I think I tried that once.
It should not provide too many details
I have no right to know about
– that will be much harder to do.

I can cannibalize some of the earlier works,
of course, for this one is so much more important.
This one will have the desired audience
I have so long sought.
This one may get her to like me
so all my dreams come true.
This one should really not earn me
another restraining order.

This may prove to be pretty tricky.

I wasn’t at your show because I had to help a sick friend.
I wasn’t at your show because my grandfather died.
I wasn’t at your show because
there was another show down the block
that was way off schedule
and I couldn’t get from one to the other in time.
I wasn’t at your show because that show was better.

I wasn’t at your show because my train pass expired
I wasn’t at your show ’cause my bike chain got broke.
I wasn’t at your show for political convictions.
I wasn’t at your show; religion forbade it.
A girl kept me away
I didn’t see the flyer in time
The bouncer wouldn’t let me in
There was a beautiful mind on TV
I was out of gas
The racists stopped me
The terrorists won
The bees attacked.
The aliens…
The aliens!

I wasn’t at your show
because I had a show of my own across town
earlier that night
and you haven’t been to see me
in seven years!
Now, granted
I haven’t been to one your gig in seventeen years
but… really…
I wasn’t at your show.
I couldn’t make it.
Cope.

The train was rolling all night long.
It was late
while we traveled
uptown, alone together.
My eyes were resting
when I found a head resting on my shoulder
– but not my own.
The red, green and golden-haired lovely beside me
eyes closed
was well into my personal space.
I did not mind
as she leaned.

She leaned into me
on to me
and
as I viewed the light mass of the auburn portion of her head nestling on my arm,
I found the weight of the moment
kept me unable to move
for fear of jostling her awake.
My transfer station passed
but I could not abandon this beauty
to the shock of my departure
so I remained in motion,
heading to Queens.

Protecting this slightly snoring vision
from wakefulness.
I tried to watch her
from far too close.
My angle told me she was young
but wise
but innocent
and hot
and she needed defense from world awoken
– mine.

At the end of the line
she startled awake
her eyes wide
shocked
as she took stock of her location
and projectile vomited on the family opposite us.

There are days, clearly,
where the choices you make
define everything that is to come after.
In that instant
I was ecstatic
I had chosen to sit next to this girl
and not in the seat across.

She asked me to write
not to her
but for her
which is a little egotistical
but kind of endearing
since it was clear
she wanted me to think of her.

So I tried to
but I knew very little
on the subject of she
and while I was happy to study up
I was not yet prepared
for the assignment at hand.

I tried to recycle
some poetry from the last girl
since she no longer had use for it
but that smacked of sociopathy
which is probably not the way to pronounce it
but captured the spirit
perfectly.

Which is about when it hit me.
The spirit is what this girl deserved
if not original content
from the bard who is me
and I could collect the soul of inspiration
that she elicited from me.

I could provide her
the words that best represented her
or rather
the Beatles could
with some devil in her heart
or twist and shout
and maybe a little bit of the rollover.

That ought to keep her satisfied, eh?

Those shoes
those high heeled
pointy pouty
leopard skin – faux –
shoes look great
-ly uncomfortable.

They look like they’re difficult to walk in
though you look amazing trying.
You appear to prowl the hall
or whatever space you choose to occupy.
You’ve occupied my attention
in that intentionally provocative footwear
but
as I said
you do not look particular happy
with your choice.

You look as if you’re struggling,
wobbling,
swaying back and forth.
You seem to be a gorgeous mess
in the midst of a crisis
that I would like to help you resolve.

I can offer you
a place
where you can take off those lovely shoes
and anything else that might suit your fancy.