jonberger

I am so glad

that your apartment is doing well.
Which?
I meant the one on Union Square
but I’m happy to hear that the others
are earning you more
than the going rate.

And I’m proud of
the little protection racket
you’ve got going on.
you seem to have something pretty special going on.
Good for you.

And that girl
– yeah: “the little gold-digger,”
she seems like a good match
a girl who understands you
and will treat you like you want.
You’ve lived the dream,
that seems so.

So…
I wonder:
when do you think
you can pay back that tuition I leant?
And the security deposit?
And the guarantee?

Oh…
Liquidity…
Wrong markets…
Bad timing. I see

No, that’s fine.
If you say so.
Do I trust you?
Well, that’s silly.
What choice do I have?

Ineffable
Important
Elysian
Inspired
Eclectic
Exciting.

The show
was too short.

To be great means you will be hated.
By some, perhaps
or by all in your lifetime
or possibly for all time
but the great take that risk
often without knowing it.
And that risk
– however small,
can never be appreciated
by all.

There is little choice for the great
to be great.
“They cannae help it,”
as my late, lamented
and super-fictional uncle Liam O’Shaughnessy never said, “‘Tis who they are.”
Truer words were never spoken
certainly not by a man
who never spoke.

To be great means you will be hated
which is probably why
you’re notorious
as the most popular guy in town.

Look: there are things
I thought you’d know by now,
things I assumed
that you’d learned as a child
or a young adult
or a college student
– before getting kicked out
for drug and whore abuse.

I thought you’d have read
or touched
or smelled at some time
the unspoken contract,
that you don’t ask a man
how old he is
or how many bitches he’s bedded
or what his religion is
or anything infinitesimally important.

I figured you knew enough
not to ask the deep questions
lest you drown
in the breadth of my response.

You do not know me
– not really.
You don’t understand
who I really am
– the soul I keep hidden
to protect the innocent
and keep me away
from prison’s gate.

You don’t see
how spastic and desperate
I can be,
how unnecessary
my efforts,
how exhausting
are all expressions of me.

You don’t get it.
You don’t understand.
You think you’ve scratched my surface
but those cuts are simply superficial.
You don’t know me
but you will.
You’ve got all the time in the world
to be sick of me, I’m sure.
Starting now.

When you come back from vacation
there’s gonna be some necking
between you and me
– some serious making out.

There’s gonna be some dancing
and hugging
and wining and dining
and probably a little bit of genital work (if I have my say).

When you get back
we’re gonna have a serious talk
and the go to the movies
and do things in the back row
about which nobody else need know.

When your little trip is over
and you come back to town
we’re gonna kick it up a notch
and bring some better excitement
to the mix
– bigger,
broader
and with less debate.

I look forward to it.
It’s gonna be great
when you get back to town
to me
from that little trip
you took with your new husband.

The next morning
when you woke me up
and said we had to go
since you had an appointment
you hadn’t mentioned
through last night’s drinking
and stumbling and mauling and…
other activities

When you rushed me out the door
without a word about our earlier atrocities
or an offer to get some breakfast
or a meeting that night
to drink or walk or talk
or maul again

When we passed the Mickey D’s
and you suggested I go in
get a biscuit
while you jumped on the bus
to get wherever it was you were going
far from me
I suspected
that the night before
might not involve any repeats.

And that’s all right.
Some things don’t bear repetition
and some mistakes
needn’t be addressed.
I get it – I understand. I…
I just thought we’d be better than that.

My adoring fans
by which I mean
my family, co-workers
and those lucky enough to call me “debtor”
will sometimes ask me
“How is it, always being right?
It must be difficult
being so much smarter
than everyone else.”
And I respond,
“You have no idea.

“It is some strange form
of torture
to have to talk down
so frequently
to so many.
“You could probably not imagine
how it is
to have only a third of your references appreciated,
half of your arguments understood,
and approximately seventy seven
seventy eighths of your propositions rejected,
no doubt because the silly cows didn’t even realize they were being hit on
by such a massive intellect as mine.

“I would never be so immodest as to suggest
‘I am too good for this world,’
but really,
do the math
– if you can.”

And that’s just about when the fans
tell me they were joking
and I invariably respond that
“I knew that.”

At the lovely night’s end, I asked
When will I see you again?
When she did not respond,
I pressed the point
and she replied,
When the hidden stars converge
or the dates disagree
or justice needs vengeance,
I shall return.

That’s no answer, I said
and she answered
It is what I have to offer
for I am a wanderer
a wayfarer,
a will-o-the-wisp,
and I come and go
like scattered leaves
or blinded rats.
I cannot be expected.

I hoped for more
and said so.
That is not enough!
I cried,
for this time,
it was meaningful,
and I mean to have more of your time
and your memories
and your mind.
I want to see you again,
I said,
and soon.
More! Mine! MORE!

That was the last I saw of her
and that was some days back
but I have hope
that another day shall come
when she’ll see fit to show herself
and then I will know
what I need to know
whatever it is.

“Let me see your wiener,”
the girl at the counter said
and, because she was pretty,
I blushed.
“What?”
“I just want to make sure you’ve got what’s coming to you,” she said.

I began to suspect dream logic
or a hidden camera
or some ulterior motive,
like some hidden crippled kid
with medical expenses
but no.
She was genuine,
her request sincere.

She wanted to be sure
my hot dog had appropriate relish
which it did
though I wish she could have explained before I’d unzipped
in front of her boss
and a cop on the beat.

It was just one of those days.

A man throws a plate
out of the Woolworth Building
formerly the biggest
in the City
and thus
the solar system.

Its history
its significance
its site-seeing status
and revenue streams of yore
are irrelevant in this day and age
and to this text
and its purposes.

John Berger is not Jon Berger.
There are differences:

One was taught at Hampshire College
and one went there.

One is a marxist theorist
known worldwide
popular beyond conception.
One got the H out.

One changes minds, hearts and souls
on an hourly basis
and one is an art critic.

One was born in London
moved to France
and speaks as such.
One keeps it real
with Boogie Down cred.

John Berger
is not Jon Berger
and would not wish to be
and vice versa
and on and on and on.

John Berger versus Jon Berger:
who would win?

(the plate shatters on the street below
shocking passers-by,
if you cared at all.)