jonberger

When the time comes
and we get close
– or closer –
depending on your definition of those words,
you will find that you can recognize me
even if I cannot be seen.

You will know me in different ways
than you know so many others.
You will know me by the timber of the screams heard in my presence
and my wake.
You will know me through a sour smell in the air
that you identity
but cannot repair.

You will know me through the tears you will taste.
You will know me by the crimes committed in my name.
You will know me via accidents
I alternately activate
and appropriate.

You will know me.
You will know me.

You will know me through a dozen drunken sighs
a hundred sunken cries
a thousand pumpkin pies
eaten out of season
– for no reason –
get it, homey?
You will know me.

You will know me
from the things I haven’t yet done
forecast in the wary eyes of strangers.
You will find me
in burnt offerings to forgotten gods.
You will know me
with abandon
and anxiety
and inexactitude
but still, with unerring accuracy.
You will know me.

You will know me.
You will know me.

My name is Jon Berger and I am an asshole.
My name is Jon Berger and I am a jerk.
My name is Jon Berger
and I was born on the twelfth day
of the twelfth month
of the twelfth year
of the Twelfth Century.
My name is Jon Berger
and I lie a great deal.

My name is Jon Berger and,
if I wanted to impress one thought upon you today,
it would be that I am indecisive.
Or an asshole.
Or that I’m Batman.
My name is Jon Berger
and I’m bad at keeping secrets.

But there are some things
I’m proud to shout to the rafters
and
I want you to know
tonight
and every other night
that my name is Jon Berger
and…

I would like
to die in my knees.
Please
can you appease
this desire?
I require
a quick death
before then lingering effects
of whatever I have
stops me from living
the way I wish.

And I wish
to live well
for the while still afforded to me.
I want to be in curious positions
on uneven surfaces
and exploring whatever I can
with whatever I’ve got.

I want to experiment.
I want to explore.
I want to do what’s possible
with you
on all fours
until I expire.
Help me, please
to die on my knees.

Yes, you may sit at this table with me.
I do not mind
but, be warned
I did not come here to be picked up.
I am heterosexual
and an atheist
I do not care for sports
or want to invest in any schemes.

I am here to drink hot chocolate
and read this comic book
and maybe later
take out my light computer and pretend to work.
I do not want to compare the size of the books we’re reading
or the correctitude of our respective philosophers.
I don’t want you to buy me a drink
or me to buy you a biscotti.
I’m not interested in your grandfather’s health
and will not share with you
anything about mine.

I am here for specific purposes
and
while this sit before me does not enter into my purposes,
neither does your presence.
You are welcome to use the seat
but not my ear for any bending,
my eyes for any attention,
my lips for any of the things you may be thinking.

You can have the seat.
Nothing else.

In fact,
upon consideration:
get up.
That miniskirt over there can have that seat
along with anything attached to it.

You told me it would be all right

that we could sing some "Silent Night,"
but with my tonsils taken out
I had no means with which to shout
and so I sit here, hospitalized
laying ’bout on creamy thighs
that get more doughy every hour
I fail to move by my own power.

This doctor’s visit is too long
and poorly timed – "Not that old song!"
It’s sad, it’s stale; I’m not my best
as parts of me are stripped, I rest
and wish that soon, when I’s escapes
it will precede the reindeer’s traipse
through every continent and land
bringing joy and toys to boys and.. and…?

I hope when I am out of here
I’ll need to dress in warmer gear
and it’ll still be winter, see,
with snow and gifts under the tree
and I shall live so happily
away from hospitals and free
and off to live without a gown
– oh, then, I’d never wear a frown.
I cannot wait when I can shout:
"Mercy Clinic; I’ve checked out!"

Nobody buys Santa presents
– not that he’s around to get ’em.
Rushing from place to place
commuting like crazy,
that guy’s too engaged for gifts
so nobody reciprocates for Santa.

The bearded goof is quiet, conscientious,
incredibly generous,
and too shy
to say what he really wants.

Nobody gets Santa presents
just
the occasional cookie
and milk enough to wash away a world
an unfortunate offering
for the lactose intolerant.
So he eats
and he grumbles
as crumbles fall down his chin
washed down with gin
and misery
and the man who brings joy
slowly dies
of diabetes and cirrhosis
and a murderous melancholy
since nobody buys Santa presents.

My name is Kris Kringle
I’d like to redress you.
My name is Kris Kringle.
Please try on these boots.
My name is Kris Kringle
and if you have not experienced one of my four Metro-area locations, you have not experienced Christmas.
Hell!
You have not experienced life.

My name is Kris Kringle
and I’ve got a deal for you!
My name is Kris Kringle;
try this jingle belled shoe.
My name is Kris Kringle
and if you mention me at our 21st avenue store
you can five elves for the price of three!
Kinda makes me tingle.
My name is Kris Kringle.

My name is Kris Kringle,
and everything’s on sale.
My name is Kris Kringle
selling Jesus nails
and Kwanzaa pails
and Chanukah mail
over to Aunt Irene in the old country
with the old religion
where, good GOD! they know a bargain when they see it.
My name is Kris Kringle,
and you’ve got to see it to believe it.

My name, as you might have heard,
is Kris Kringle,
and I really think you should buy something from me
today
or my name’s not Kris Kringle!

Kid can’t write anymore.
He’s got nothing new.
He hasn’t been able to put an idea together
in weeks
months
millennia.

Chump’s in a slump
got him down in the dumps.
He’s thinking outta his rump
and that’s… mumps?
Kid can’t write!

It’s getting bad
so bad he’s looking for inspiration
at the bottom of bottles
barrels
bustiers and bathrooms.
He’s finding nothing,
nada, no joy.
Boy oh boy,
he’s got nothing left.

He’s scraping.
He’s reaching.
He’s pleading with demons and gods
to provide him with something
so he can make it right.
Right now, though?
Kid can’t write.

For a second, there,
I thought we could be soul-mates
that you could be what
I’d been looking for
all this time.
I thought you could be the one
– that we could have won
some sort of celestial lottery
with each other.

There was a day
– an hour, at least –
when I had faith
a sacred understanding
that this was it
that I had found the last person
I would love.
I thought it was over
and I’d achieved
the end.

I saw culmination.
I contemplated concord.
I felt complete.
I thought we had reached something,
something sincere
something simple
something else.

For the shortest of instant,
I thought it was the end if history
but it seems
history won’t stop
for any of us.

My tummy hurts.
There is something sitting
at the bottom of my stomach
like a boulder
like a baby
like a big breakfast that never found a way to settle,
just kept exploring
searching for new places to conquer
new lands to invade.

My gut has been taken captive by hostile forces
that took advantage of my weakness:
my late nights
heavy drink
and a sad fixation on fried cake.
My body has been beaten
by my own horrible choices.

My tummy hurts
and I let this happen.
My tummy hurts
and I am the cause.
My tummy hurts
and I can’t fix it
and worse
there is no one who can
or will.

There is no one who might have protected me
fom my worst enemy.
There is no one to help.
No one will give me warm milk
or pink goop
or a plain piece of toast.
No one will serve me in bed
Seeking to make it all better.

I have no one to save me
to give succor
in the face of my stomach
and I ache all over again
over the actions of my worst enemy
and the choices that led us here.