jonberger

Is it a tragic flaw if I don’t back up my poetry?
If I expect civilization to collapse
and the electrical aspect of civilization to come apart,
then isn’t saving my material on a hard drive just a waste of time?

But having said that,
isn’t it the height of idiocy that I haven’t backed everything up with printed copies?
I mean, what kind of a dummy am I?
Who’s the bigger fool:
the fool who calls himself out
or the fool who calls himself out, and refuses to print it, when he knows
print is the only thing that will survive this gasping world he’s in?

You don’t have to answer that.
I think I’ve figured it out…

The death did not break us much at all.
Perhaps it was that his process of dying was long
and consistent.
Perhaps we were not as close as we could have been.
Perhaps the love we shared was light on emotion
or has a delayed reaction built in
so that the grief has yet to be experienced.

Maybe there were earlier wounds
that made this parting easier to accept
even though he had changed dramatically
by the time of his death.

However the stiff is sliced,
we did not seem as affected at the end
as might have been anticipated.
Both my mother and I have been mildly surprised by this.
It has proven convenient, though.

I do not write right. My descriptions are without.
My poetry lacks poesy. There is little flow, see?
My thesaurus needs more choices.
I’ve run out of delightful options for… good.
The passive voice is used far too often;
Work must be done.

I run in circles of cyclic stylistic mishmash.
Some of it’s all right, but
some of it gets tiresome.

I get tiresome.
My work reflects me
and I am tiresome.
I am not writing right.
Something must be done.

I wonder who will do it.

It is easy to realize the thing that you have now grown to love
is special, is unique,
has characteristics that make it loveable.

Remember, though,
in the first act,
when you argued and found each other
distasteful?
When your meet cute was more like a meet hate?

That is useful information to keep in mind
for most things:
What you love most
could be something
that you initially hate
according to Hallmark.

It is the day I brought her flowers that she first told me
she was secretly seeing someone.
She told me who
and swore me to secrecy
which was kind of a nasty move,
so I couldn’t disparage them to any of our mutual friends.

It turns out I got confused about who she told me she was seeing
so I thought it was Drew instead Grey.
Big difference.
It really shocked me with my initial misunderstanding.
I was pretty depressed
and it got me going to therapy again,
so that was probably a good thing.
Did it help?

That’s probably a very good question
to be asking.

I cut my toenail too short
and now I feel it
or rather its absence
most every moment.

My ghost toenail cries to me,
saying, “Hey. Hey, Berger!
Lick me!”
Thinking he sounds just a tad obscene,
I pay as little attention as I can.
“You can hear me, Berger Boy. Lick me!”

Tentatively, I lift my finger to my face
and lick my fingernail.
“Good job, boy. Now… put the finger in your mouth
and suck on it like a good boy.”
Too much.
I pocket my right hand, where the ghost nail resides
– but that only irritates the absent nail.
“OOF!” it says, and I quickly bring it to my lips.
“Oh, yeah…” It purrs.

This is getting out of hand.
“Now stroke it, Berger. There you go. You got that clipper around still?”

I really don’t want to know what’s going to happen next.

If you find yourself tired on the road
and you don’t have someone to spell you
or your driving companions are sleepy
or animals or children
or “only know how to drive automatic”
or some other lame excuse,
and you’re at serious risk
of falling asleep on the road,
lean into the sleep.

Just close your eyes
and get napping,
but don’t half-ass it.
Don’t say to yourself,
“I’ll only rest for a second at this stoplight.”
No, nap on the curve. Get to work on this sleep.
Get your dream on.

That’s the trick!
As soon as you dreaming,
Morpheus’ll take over, and your dreams
will have you driving fine in no time.

Haven’t you had driving dreams before?
How’d you do?
See? It’ll be fine.
It’ll be fine!

Just get to bed on the road,
and we can test this theory out,
and you can let me know how this goes,
so I can figure out it this study is worth pursuing.

Thanks in advance!

Write me a letter.
Tell me a thing.
Admit a secret
or ask me for one
or share something that others already know.
I’m not picky.

Yes I am.

See?
I’ve already shared with you.
Now you can do me a little something.

Send me a key.
Give me a password.
Maybe a fiver.
Possibly a picture.
A spare lock of hair.
Something your mother left you.

It doesn’t matter what,
just so that it might have meaning.
With DNA
or one of your pets.
If you could send one of your children
that would be great.

I’ll be waiting.

Is the glass
half-empty/half-full?
Don’t matter
very much
when it is actually
half filled with acid!

I wash. I clean.
When the Lady of the House sends me off,
I scurry, but listen.
“What about your husband?” He asks,
his voice rough with something absent from my life for some time.
“Rafe doesn’t matter,” the Lady answers, husky herself,
“He’s dedicated to being in love.
“He’ll stay in a situation because he’s so forsworn.”
“Forsworn?” The man laughs. “Does he speak like that?”
“His word exactly.”
They are silent for a while, except for sighs,
and some sounds I believe I can still recognize.

Later, when the Master comes home,
he seems forlorn.
Forlorn and forsworn.
I take his coat as he asks after his wife.
“She is upstairs,” I explain. The man left over an hour ago.
“I’ll see you for dinner,” the Master says,
and launches up to the residences.

The Lady is right about the Master’s dedication.
Of course, I don’t know that he would remain dedicated,
should he find that he was being betrayed.
Am I the sort of servant that would betray their employer’s trust
by stating what happens behind closed doors?
I, too, feel forsworn.
What shall I do?

I dust. I clean.
I think.