jonberger

Lately she’s been bringing up cancer.
A lot.
She’s talking about ailments,
commenting on communicability.
She’s observing illnesses down every alley.

She’s always associating everything
with her daughter’s diseases
and offering it up as an excuse
for everything.
It’s why she’s late for drinks
It’s the reason her presentations are boring.
It’s how she rationalizes her infidelities
and her piss poor handwriting
and inability to cover her portion
of the drinks
she was late for in the first place.

So much of her conversation
is about nothing but cancer
and how her daughter has it
and I am sick to death of it.

I’ve been doing some digging
and I really can’t any proof that
there is a thing
as hair cancer.
I’m not even sure
if she has a daughter

The next poem is going to be fucking fantastic.
The next poem will be amazing.
The next poem may very well change lives
starting with mine,
I swear to vag-licking GOD!

The next poem will speak to the masses.
The next poem will speak to the heavens.
The next poem will put together disparate concepts
and make them seem to be one and the same.
The next poem
may perform a concatenation of souls.

I have been waiting for over nine years
for the proper inspiration to come over me
so I can properly compose the next poem.
It’s been a long dusty
dry period
but I see a light at the end of the tunnel.
I’ve been seeking out the appropriate motivation
and I see it coming towards me – fast.

The next poem is going to be fast
and relentless
and sharply poignant
and beautifully rendered
in lipstick and oils.
The next poem is going to be life-changing
for me
– like I said –
but possibly for the rest of the world, too.

It’s gonna be grand.
It’s gonna be great.
It’s gonna be finished competently.
It’s gonna be started
sometime soon
after I leave the DMV.

NEXT!

Pretend blood gushes
when their fights get extreme
and the action is pronounced
heavy and multicolored.

They duel with swords
using whatever materials are at hand:
twigs, curtain rods
wrapping paper rolls
and wiffle bats,
all available
for the appropriate occasion.

Anything at hand
can be used for their purposes
as ketchup packets squirt onto the couch
pools trickled out of imagined wounds.

They are creative.
They are inspired.
They can do anything
when they put their minds
to the spirit of violence.

Well, that sucked.
It happens.
Sometimes the work you do
no matter how much you try
and strive
that work is going to be ass.

Such is the case
with the last piece.
I apologize for it.
I did what I could
but
well…
it was a bad day.

I hadn’t enough sleep
the sushi made my tummy ache
and no one was there to rub it better.
The central conceit was flawed,
false and foolish.

There are days when this happens.
Sometimes, your work ends up being sub-par
– below expected standards.
Clearly,
that is the case with the last piece.

I have no explanation
for what’s going wrong
now.

Every day I pass your door
spy through your window
and see you and the flute.
You are always at it
concentrating
hesitating
demonstrating your proficiency with the instrument.

It is with great resolve that you work it
seeking to always improve
always reach some higher level
I cannot understand.
You are motivated, directed.
You sound great
but
you don’t look like you’re having any fun.

It is a task you have taken on
to be the best
at handling the flute
and I appreciate your diligence
and am amazed by the effort you’ve put in
but wouldn’t it be better
to do something you love.

I know I don’t know you
am simply spying upon your secret life.
I know I have no right
but
I might be able to help you
find a way
to enjoy your activity more.

Do not expect much of me.
I am not capable of the grand feats
the big jobs.
I will not save your life
or decimate your enemies.
I do not have that strength or power.

Do not put too many requirements before me.
I have failed at more things
than I have won.
I cannot be depended upon
to fix the grave mistakes
or right the wrongs of nations.

Do not ask a great deal from me.
I am not a man of many accomplishments
or ability
and I will be gone a long time
doing whatever you require me to do
and if it gets done
ever
it will be a miracle.

Do not make me serve you
for if I start,
I will not stop.

I keep trying to enter danger
to dare
to become something more
than what I first was.

I keep looking for a way
to transform into a broad-chested hero
through a secret word
or a magical motion
or a flick of super-science switch.
I keep hoping to improve
into a better iteration
of myself.

I keep heading out on quest
to have the adventures that will grow me
into that which I want to be.
I want to be someone they talk about
someone they believe in
someone who believes in himself.
I keep seeking chrysalis.

My therapist tells me it’s a bad idea
that I can change
without risk
without violence.
I keep trying to convince him
to see the same movies I see.

He keeps trying to get me out
of solitary confinement.

I sent her the letter recently
with my thoughts and dreams
and fantasies and belief systems
embedded in the lines.
I let her know about what I wanted and hoped
and sent it with a stamp.
That was eight days ago
and I have heard nothing in response.

I should have called.
I should have texted.
I should have reached out and touched her
in any number of better ways
that
in retrospect
make so much more sense
would have attained such speedier results.

Had I acted in an efficenter way
I’d not have to wait
any longer to get an answer;
I’d already know!

But for now
I have to wait
and hope
and pray
that my letter eventually arrives,
that she doesn’t see it as junk
and still has stamps left
with which to respond.

Dammit.
This absolutely
positively had to get there
on time.

The girl I’m dating isn’t
– a girl, that is.
I think I’m dating a man.
I may be dating a man.
Good god!
I’m dating a man!

She appreciates females
more than any other female I’ve met..
She talks about women she’s dated
which used to get me hot
until I realized it wasn’t a sexy bi thing
it was creepy. She’s a man!

When I try to touch her
she shies me away
returning my hands
before putting hers
all over me.
And then there’s where
she puts other things…
I’ve been all right with that
for the last few weeks
but I’m beginning to suspect something;
what is she trying to hide?
I like her.
She’s beautiful, considerate,
loving and smart.
She may be the best girl I’ve ever had
but it might be because she’s like a naturalized citizen
who knows more about my country than I ever could.
There is no zealot like a recent convert
– and she’s ever so zealous.

She has something to prove
something to hide
and I suspect that
the latter
is a dong.

I’m dating a man.
And I know I should be all right with that.
I’ve seen enough movies to know
that true love need not be defied by all the obstacles in the world
like bigoted cultures
or biology
or the rampant deceit involved in our relationship
or the paranoia I may be exhibiting right now.
I know that just because everything between us is a lie
is no reason for me not to be more caring
open-mindedly evolved.
I should see beyond the box.
I should be all those things.
I should…

Wait’ll my parents hear
I’m dating a dude…

Well, it’s your loss, then!
I mean… I get it.
It’s not me; it’s you.
I’ve heard it.
I understand. I know what you’re getting at.

But know this:
I was gonna bring pie.
I was gonna feed you.
I was going to satisfy cravings you hadn’t yet recognized.
I was gonna be ahead of the curve
providing sweetness you can’t even imagine.
I was gonna give you pie.

There were gonna be flowers
– but not roses!
Those cliched things?
I think not!
I was bring you a mixed bouquet
carefully selected to represent us
on each occasion.

There would have Hibiscuses and Hyacinths
in honor of your sincere beauty.
All that’s lost now.
No flowers for you.

The ways I was ready to worship
at your shrine
are washed away now.
I see what you’re about
and I’m ready to move on, too.

No jewelry,
no tours of the city
recalling the significance of everything we’d ever loved.
It’s over
before it began.

And – no,
Me? Crying? No.
Nothing like that.
I was just allergic to…
to the pie
or the flowers.
Or…
excuse me.