jonberger

“And he would do anything to get it back”
is the last line
of the first draft
of the latest poem
that I wrote.
It was about a toy
and a boy
who was a goy
on Christmas Day
who received his heart’s desire
and found it wonting.

He found it broken
actually
in that first draft
inspired by a TV show
and a children’s tale
and some effortfully
erased memories
I uncovered as inspiration.

The poem had value:
a good idea
with emotional strength
but poor execution
found it
lacking,
limited,
broken.

So a second draft was born
– but borne further from the original concept
and ended up being more
about the mechanics of the toy
than the loss of innocence
and excitement
and, in some small way,
faith.

A third draft was just shit
so, finally,
a line was left
and a concept
and truly,
another poem entirely.

Sometimes,
you must let something die
for something new to be born
though you would do anything to get it back.

The steak and eggs were three ninety nine
and just about as good as you’d expect
but after walking the four miles to that forsaken diner
they tasted of manna from Seven Eleven
or someplace twice as good
like Seven Twenty Two
or Fourteen Twenty Two
or Wa Wa’s.

In the crush of the diner
I could hear the rain beat on the window
and not my skin
which was a pleasant change.
It was noisy with people
and not the splash of cars riding by me
in the steady postage.

The steak and eggs
for three ninety nine
was not life changing
but being there
in that space
with that meal
drying off
was transcendent.

Eventually,
I knew
I’d have to get a tow truck
to pick you up
but only after dessert.

You live too far uptown
too far away
from anything resembling anything.
Your neighborhood reeks of
“nothing going on”
and your neighbors reek of suburbity.

I don’t belong in that world
struggled to leave it
when I fled for college
four years ago.
I can’t return to those lands
– not so quickly.
Not so easily.

So why don’t?
What pull do you have
to drive me to such northern lands
with such frequency?
What makes me a slave
to your home
and your presence?

I mean, after all:
how good
could your biscuits really be?

Just because we made out when we were fourteen
doesn’t mean I want to be your boyfriend.
I mean, I do
but it doesn’t automatically stand to reason.
Just like the fact that I like your mom
doesn’t mean I want to be with you
when we’re her age.
OK, that was another bad example.

Look:
Just because
every song I write
is about Alisa
or Elyssa
or Alicia or Alice or Liz
does not mean I can’t stop thinking about you.
Nor does the fact that
I can’t masturbate without you firmly in mind
or that my license plate reads
ALICIASBUOY
(because ALICIASBOY was already taken)…

These are coincidences.
There is no direct effect and cause
and you can think whatever you want
– really – but I know the truth
and maybe
if you think about it enough
you do too.

You shouldn’t like me
the way that you do.
It’s really not right.
I am fairly stupid and smelly and
good God have you looked at me recently?
It’s like…
it’s like God extracted all the elements of perfection
and then pissed on what was left
and his super-deitoxic urine melted all of muck into a vaguely humanoid malformed me-shape.

But you?
You’re nothing like that.
Rather
you’re the complement of that very same equation.
It’s like all the quality God took out of me
only twice as cool.
Could that be it?

Could it be common complementary nature
that leaves you liking me?
Might that explain what makes you
so foolishly infatuated
with one so remarkably beneath you?

God,
that was dumb
and cliched
and far too easy an answer.
It must be
that for you to enjoy my company
you must not be as good
as I thought you were.
That would account for your silly choices.
Now
at last
it makes sense:
You suck
and I
feel so much better.

Were you to go to the woods
as is your wont,
with me,
won’t you please protect me
from the various threats
that may assail us.

If it’s moist
you can hold the umbrella.
If its dark
your smile can light the way
and if a rabid bear comes knocking in the night
you have first your vicious bark
and your terrible bite.

Please use what you’ve got
when we go out to the woods
and
if I get lost
please be the thing
to guide me home.

I know we’re not the best fit:
You’re brave and smart
and strong and wild,
and I’m a devoted reader of Corn Chip Monthly.

I get that our heads aren’t always
in the same place
or even the same stratosphere.
I see we’re different
and not the match
that heaven makes.

Still
There’s something to it.
Something in us
– a chemistry
or biology
or some physics-sian sense
of polar attraction,
isn’t there?
It can’t be just me.
You feel something here
don’t you?

And anyway,
when a square peg tries
to fit the round hole,
with enough attempts,
that wood could start a fire.

That may not be the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard
but
it’s almost certainly the lamest you’ve ever offered.
"If Brother Ray could do it,
why not me?"
Because you’re not Brother Ray,
you haven’t been Brother Ray,
and, odds are, you won’t become Brother Ray.
Still, if things change,
feel free to play that dumb card.

The next time you’re Ray Charles
you can have your affairs.
The next time you’re Ray Charles
you’ll have earned those drugs.
The next time you wake up
and discover that you’ve redefined popular music
– and thus, popular culture –
well, THEN you can go ahead and slap people with a thin stick
whenever you’re out for a walk.

Of course, I don’t imagine that happening anytime soon
– but
if so,
if you uncover that you’ve suddenly transformed
into that particularly significant figure,
if you look in the mirror and see
that you’re Ray Charles
– then you still won’t be him,
you idiot,
because you could see!

Do not look at me with that sort of tone,
young lady,
when, in point of fact,
I did it for you.
I thought about how generous you’ve been lately
with the dinners
and the chance to crash
and all those special rubs you’ve provided lately.
I wanted to thank you
somehow
and I thought this was then perfect gift.
I see from your sounds
that I was mistaken.
I get it.
So why the federal case?

I brought the mouse to you
as a present.
I thought you’d appreciate it.
Maybe your bed was not the beat place to show it
and perhaps I shouldn’t have played with it
quite so much
in advance.
Live and learn, right?
Right?
Oh, geez,
then silent treatment now?
Really?
Fine. Just be sure you’re back on track
for tomorrow morning’s vittles.

You should let me go.
You should allow me to leave.
You should show me the door
escort me to it,
through it,
then lock me out,
ensuring your solitude for the evening
and ever after.
You should let me go.

You should free me
from this comfy couch
and its tentacles of pleasure.
You should show me the key of escape
and allow me egress.
You ought to set me free.

You should stop this
stop these actions
this thing that you’re doing because
it’s obvious to me
if you keep on kissing me just like that
there is no chance that I won’t kiss you back and
what little control you see from me now?
Gone.
I won’t be leaving, like,
ever.

You should
you ought
would you please…
what?