I am so glad you were willing to see me
after so long.
With so much water
under the bridge
I was afraid
you’d only want to see me
drowned.
When I went away
I ha da lot of time
to think about how things went
and how things went so wrong.
I’m not the same man I was.
I don’t believe the same things
or feel the same things
or say the same things.
I’m sorry that I hurt you.
It wouldn’t be like that again.
I’ve changed
and I’m totally into fat chicks now.
So
how’s about it?
That doesn’t count,
she said,
It’s not a poem
and it’s not for me
and it doesn’t win you any points.
Point A, she said,
It doesn’t rhyme.
Poems rhyme
and that doesn’t,
so it doesn’t count.
Point Two, she continued,
There is no reference to me
either direct or subtle.
That… series of words
– for I will NOT call it a poem –
she went on parenthetically
could have been written for anyone
and, she added,
considering the reference to Friendster,
at any time.
And finally, she stated,
Item Eye Aye I:
You seem so proud of yourself
when really
what you read to me is clearly
some cobbled together collection of crap.
You get no credit.
You earn no respect.
You get no goods
because of this.
I will, she allowed,
still sleep with you.
But not because of that
THING you just read.
Just because,
she said, then paused.
And winked.
It was the reference to Friendster.
If I am to write a poem tonight
about donuts
what could I say
that would seem fresh
new
undespoiled
and worth digesting?
Should I speak
of that first look,
of the glistening circle
just out of the oven
and how exciting
and inviting
and hot it seems
all three hundred and sixty degrees?
Might I mention the smell
as it wafts across the room
escaping the display
and entering me
long before the taste first touches tongue?
The sound as it rustles in the bag
begging for escape
or early arrival into its eventual destination?
The wet sugar melting on fingers,
instants before the soft submission to teeth
gums, tongue and throat?
Do I bring these elements up?
If I must describe the donut on this day
is this the way?
Or must I just admit
that the only donuts left
at this late hour
are old and stale
and devoid of pleasure
much like
these very words?
The glass shattered against the wall
in anger
and will never be returned
to its earlier state.
Pieces
strewn across a carpet
deflect moonlight
beautifully
and best
represents our today,
better than any other words
do.
The shards
soon to be swept
collected
tossed
are the truth of us
now.
I could say I’m sorry
but what solace
would that provide?
When you’re hungry anything will do.
Any kind of grub
no matter how smelly
crappy
or dangerous it seems
will be consumed
in the face of starvation.
We forget this
of course
– because we don’t starve –
but when it gets too bad
when you hear your stomach in your head
telling you to fill up on dirt
to fuel
however you can,
you remember
and you eat.
You eat
and you regret
and you realize
that wasting away
would have been better
and safer
and you wish you could go back
and delete the rotten meat
you just took in.
But you can’t
and it wouldn’t matter
because you would lower the standards
as low as they’ll go
the next time you’re hungry.
The trek took many boroughs
several transfers
and a couple of bucks
but the donut shop on Continental was the best
and the most rewarding jelly-filleds
were just waiting to be plucked
from the counter girl’s hands.
It was worth it
occasionally
to head out to the middle of Queens
to feast like kings
on fried dough and jam
and cream
and the occasional glaze.
The sugar rush left you dazed,
confused
but tried and true.
It was hard to leave the shop
and return to Manhattan life.
But return we did
and my last trip there
was decades ago
and just now
I learned how long
the shop’s been gone.
I was not dedicated,
Carmello’s.
I was not faithful.
I found easier holes to fill my void
and left you hanging in the wind
like those plain cake donuts
that nobody wanted.
I haven’t missed you in years.
I miss you today
and feel
completely empty.
Please
do not do this.
Do not break my heart
for that would most certainly kill me
and I do not wish to die.
Do not do this
for I fear the repercussions.
If you crush me
and tuis kill me
I will have little choice
but to haunt you
for my life will have been uncompleted
in the dying
in so tragically romantic a way.
I would follow you
on silent footsteps
and
while you wanted to see less of me
there would be so much more to find
hidden hints of me
in the haunting.
You would know me from the echoes.
You would feel my static shock.
You would find Jesus images everywhere
– but they’d be less Jesus than Jonny.
If you leave me
I will follow
forever.
I am not threatening.
Rather
I am begging you
not to do this.
This state I describe
is the last thing I seek
and I hope you understand
I want to inconvenience you
not at all
but want you to leave me
even less.
I don’t want to haunt your dreams
– I know what you dream about!
So
please
I beg
stay with me
today and ever after
for our own good.
You don’t know me very well
So I hope you’ll reconsider your decision.
You just don’t know enough
– yet –
to make an informed choice.
I’m a very interesting person
and, if you knew it
– knew me –
I think you’d realize
how interesting it would be
for we
to be
together.
I’m a poet.
Did you know it?
I’m no pro. It
would disservice the art, you get me?
But I believe in my art
as I believe
you and me
could be
pleased
together.
I’m a man
and you’re a woman
– as far as I can tell –
and our parts
are appropriately complimentary.
I am kind to my pets
and cry
profusely
whenever I have to put them to sleep.
I would not put you to sleep
with boring stories
if we
would be
together.
I know I said this before
but I really am interesting
and would entertain you
with the all the tales
of the people in my neighborhood
who I know
and follow.
I know you don’t know much about me
but I already know so much about you
and would really appreciate it
if you rethink,
drink me in
and consider
how blessed we could be
should we
be together.
The kiss was unexpected.
The kiss was quite the surprise.
The kiss
was foreign to me
as it has been so long
since lips met mine
and I had experienced another’s tongue
in such shocking proximity.
It was foreign
but not unkind.
The kiss was quick
and wet
and smelt of honey
and tasted of raspberries
and felt like Cayanne pepper.
The kiss was Latin
in stature.
The kiss lasted not long.
The kiss suffered disclaimers.
The kiss was an exclamation
at the end of a short stanza
Punctuation of a proverb that nobody quite understood.
The kiss was not good
and
we need speak no more about it
If you were a real man
you would’ve bought her that next drink
and
you would’ve sealed the deal.
You would’ve sealed the deal
if you were a real man
and could afford that last drink
and
without protection
you would have found her
as a real woman.
If you were really a man,
she would’ve come to you months later
and told you
about the joyous event
and
as a real man
you would’ve done the right thing
and
taken her
– both of them –
as your own.
It would’ve been a loveless union
if
you were a real man
but
it could have grown into something new,
special,
glorious.
If you were real man,
you too – three –
could have become
something more
than the sum.
You could have equaled all your parts
to become a real family.
It could’ve been nice.
It could’ve been real.
It would’ve been great
If
you were a real man.
jonberger 