jonberger

I don’t like thinking about
whom you’ve been with
but I tend to spend far too much time
trying to determine
the precise number.

I hate to think of it:
some stranger bathing in your beauty
you showered in his cum.
I hate to think of it,
but think of it I do,
time after time,
day after day,
hour after
masturbatory hour.

Who are these phantom shapes
that occupy your past
and your thighs past?
Where were they
when you were impressionable
and I
was so very unimpressive?

How did you find them
and why can’t I free them
from my fevered imagination?
I should be glad I know you now
when you are fully formed,
your misadventures through
– unless…
am I afraid that you have more to dare?
More men to meet?
And why am I asking you
when you’re not even here?

I’m sorry.

I’m a little distracted,
out of sorts,
sitting across from you
because you’re so pretty
and my stomach is upset
and the guy sitting behind you
has some sort of a facial wart
that appears to be growing
rapidly
even as we speak.

But
I’m sorry.
I want to hear your story
about how your boss doesn’t appreciate you
and how the mail
never seems to come on time.
These are serious problems,
aren’t they?

What?
Oh, god,
I was just thinking:
“try not to stare at her chest,”
which got me staring at your chest
which, based on what I just told you,
is the LAST thing I wanted to do.
And now I have to go to bathroom.

I’m sorry.
This should really be going better,
shouldn’t it?
I should have impressed you more
and spoken of intestinal fortitude less
and spoken of your smile
instead of your vulva, and now I –
I… hadn’t mentioned your vulva before?
But now I have?

Damn!
This sucks. I mean, for you.
I’m having a delightful time.
Can this evening go any worse?
Well, by the looks of his wart
and his wart’s friends
I think I know the answer.

She said “Show me your moves,”
and I knew what that meant
so I hastened to comply.
When a woman asks to see you dance
it is a form of foreplay that most boys
are too ignorant to respect.
Not I.

I knew what I hoped that she wanted
and was ready to give it to her
and then some.
So I did the Spasm
and I did the Retch.
I did the Joust and The Good Ol’ Charlie Brown
and then the Snoopy
just for fun.

I did the Mackarel
and the Jack-in-the-Box
and the Colostomy Bag
and Feeding Vulture
and the Maggot.
“Wow!” she said with her eyebrows
and I knew I was in.

But I was in pain,
is what I was in
and the sweat was dripping
and the snot was dropping
and the blood was flowing,
pooling at my feet
and still I danced
for she was the kind of girl
for which a thousand ships
would move a thousand mountains
all the way to Mohammedsville.

So I kept at it
keeping all eyes on me
and her lips pursed,
probably impressed,
though, perhaps, less so
when I doubled over
and did the Retch for real.

She took me home with her,
cleaned me up
and put me to bed
though not in the way I’d hoped.

And I haven’t danced since.
It didn’t yield the desired results
with the kind of women
that I would meet
– or, at least,
those I would want to mate.

All of this
of course
should be seen as foreplay
to the question
as to whether you’d like to see my moves.

I ate your fries

when you offered them
but
do not think
for a single solitary semi-second
that I owe you anything.
I do not.

The fries
which you so sullenly offered
do not buy my silence
or my company
or even some of my more important opinions.

You have earned nothing
with the tribute
of a provision of potatoes.
You have fixed none of our troubles
or cured any ills.
We are just where we were
before.

I will not forgive you
because of the fries
but perhaps
I could offer you some juice?

If you knew me the way

that I’d want you to know me,

then you would understand

exactly what I’m getting at

when I say, “Hi.”

If you felt the same way

about the universe

as I thought you did

when I first saw you

in your peasant dress

and wrestler boots

then this conversation

would be unnecessary

and I could explain it all

with a simple mutterance.

…

“Bye.”

Fuck you, poem. You’re not good enough
not clever enough
not beautiful enough
to make my point
change the world
win her love.

Why couldn’t you be better, poem?
Why couldn’t you have been written
with more goodness baked in the lines?
Wouldn’t it be better
if you were more lyrical
more mellifluous
more potent,
you stupid fucking poem?

Fuck you.
Why didn’t you improve yourself
while I was writing you?
Why didn’t you get fixed
when I edited you?
Didn’t you know what I was getting at
when I wrote you down?

Fuck you, poem.
I hate you
and I’m never reading you
when you’re published in my folio.

When we tell our kids about how we met,
let it be like this:
how you saw me across the room
at some friends’ wedding
and you saw something
not beauty
or wit
– though, eventually,
you would uncover those within me
(through ridiculous effort),
but something distinct
something kind.

Tell them how you knew
immediately
that some association would be made
and if not that night,
then sometime after
for destiny was at work.
We were meant.

Tell them something of that history.
Explain it well
and please
keep quiet about stripper poles
and restraining orders.

Save that for the grandkids.

She told me to stop looking at her tits.
She didn’t say it like that, though.
More like:
quit staring at my chest,
you fucking mongoloid.

I told her I didn’t think I could
though I, too, said it differently.
I sad,
your bosom,
so wondrous,
so appealing,
so fulfilling,
I do not think I can take in enough of it.
It is possible that instead she heard me say
Your tits are hot.

Either way,
I continued to gaze
so never noticed the right cross.
Then I saw stars
– and couldn’t look away from them
either.

Reyes
on the roof
surveys the sunset
as the dregs of the day dissipate
into a city slowly going technicolor.
He looks upon the street below
and deems it good.
Reyes raises his can
and chugs.

“You worked hard today,”
he says
which is unfortunately untrue,
“You enjoying it?”
“I never thought I’d say that I liked drywall,” I reply,
and let it hang.

Reyes shrugs
takes a slug
and looks off.
He doesn’t care much
what I have to say
or think.
He just wants the hours I put in
and the work I do.

“You’re learning something, I think,”
he says.
“You think you’re learning something?”
I eye the belt he dropped to his side
with its drill bits
and hammer
and screws.

“I’m learning quite a bit,”
I reply,
“More than I thought.”

Not all art is timeless.
When the Replacements recorded “Answering Machine,”
the technology described was new
ish, and still,
a serious disruption of the telecommunication experience.
Also, hauntingly beautiful.

But who has an answering machine anymore?
Who is out of touch
in the way the ‘Mats described it?

History has passed by that song,
just as the Replacements have been replaced
as our fair haired boys.
Luckily,
this poem shall stand the test of time.
(hashtag occupy Haiti)