jonberger

CHICKEN WINGS

Oh, fuck!
Look outside.
Witness the wonder.
Experience the puffy clouds
the sunny sun
the sheer aching glory
of this cock-smashingly gorgeous day.

This is not a day for arguments with associate
– spirited and cantankerous they may be.
This is not a day for dour depression
or self-righteous suicides
– except by auto-erotic asphyxiation.
That shit’s cool.

This is a day for dance.
This is a day for drugs.
This is a day for dizzy spells
from spinning too much
and then a slice of sweet baby pie.

And you may disagree.
You may spy
with your little eye
something that starts with “N,”
and that proved to be Negative
or Nuclear Annihilation
or Natuonal Socialist Party.

Maybe you don’t approve
of this afternoon of glee,
of the very fuckishness of it all. Maybe you’re too good for fun.

That’s OK.
Enjoy your indoor day.
Appreciate the majesty of misery.
I’m fine with that, but,
if you’ll excuse me
I have some chicken wings to eat
and some koalas to rape afterwards.

STORM CLOUDS

I have grown to love the rainy days
when I can take off my shoes and slacks
and exclaim sadly:
“I can’t make it into the office today.
Damn.”

My employees understand
just how difficult it can be;
the commute from downstate can be brutal.
They don’t begrudge me
these occasional days off
whenever it pours
or snows
or drizzles.

I have found
that the rain
can be used
to excuse absences
from any number of events.

I couldn’t get out to my retarded godson’s bar mitzvah
because of a ‘horrible storm’
his parents were too beleaguered
to verify.
Interviews, blind dates,
court proceedings
all can be missed
due to bad weather.
It is wondrous,
this thing I has found.

I have been
researching the tech
to get my own personal storm clouds
to summon when I need them.
I found a team
that might take on the project
but haven’t been able
to meet with them yet
because the skies got kinda grey.

HER BASSIST

She is in love with her bassist
who has been married for six years.
She quietly suspects
the itch will come down
soon and
he will look to her
to scratch it.

She says nothing of this
to me
since such talk is rude
to share with a boyfriend
but
prior to going out
we were friends
and
she forgets some of our drunken talk
before courting
after shows
while I was a groupie
content to hang with the band.

Those were more innocent days
when I soaked up much of their stories
without putting it all together.
Now, of course,
I know better
and, like her,
am waiting for that seventh year
to see if his bassist’s instincts kick in.

Evelyn, dammit

You were supposed to wait for me.
You were supposed to be mine.
You were gonna explore the world for a bit
innocently, chaste
while I remained at home,
dutiful, damaged, and dreaming of your return.
You were supposed to be back by now.

Dammit, Evelyn:
You were meant to accomplish great things
with a great man by your side.
How you got suckered into me I’ll never know.
But you fulfilled an ancient prophecy
my mother told me,
years into my only childhood.
She said:
“You will find a bounteous and beautiful woman
who will treat you well
and adore you
one day
and every day after.”
That sounds a fucking lot like Happily Ever After, doesn’t it?
So how does Harold fit into my Happily Ever After, huh?

Dammit, Evelyn:
this is not fair
This is not right
and
this is not the way I expected to celebrate our anniversary.

No, I really do not want to talk about it.
Forget I said anything.
It’s not important.
The number of poems and songs
I’ve written about your girlfriend
is irrelevant.
So are the stories and drawings
and photos and films.
Also, the messages I left for her,
the letters and texts and emails
– and the classes I’ve started to take.
It doesn’t matter.

I may have had a little crush
– a slight flirtation –
with your girl, but
I’m over it.
I haven’t ordered a gift for her
in the last forty minutes
which – not that I’m counting –
might be a new record.

My feelings
for your lady
may once have been been
but I know she’s with you
and I would never challenge you
not even for one so fair and fine
as Madeline.

Trust me
Just as I trust you
with the finest treasure known to me.
I will stay out of your way
until she changes her mind.

Dammit, Ray,
why you gotta do that?
Why would you tell me something do patently untrue?
You gave assurances;
you swore it would happen.
I was promised a coon.

A big fat coon
that would come bumbling in
on all fours
acting like he owns the place.
You told me
there would be a show.

And?
What do we have to show for it?
Really,
what have we got?
No coons.
Not a single one.

Why betray my trust like that?
WHY?

CRIMES OF LARRY

I wanted to apologize to you
for the way I behaved
last year
when I was drunk
and stupid
and so much less mature
than I have since become.

I didn’t realize
how poorly I treated you,
how disrespectful I was
of your feelings
and your time
and your heart.

It took me time to see
what you deserved
and how I failed to provide
and whether I even had the right
to ask for forgiveness.

I didn’t
and I don’t know
but you should hear
how I was wrong
and should understand
since you aren’t around to know
that for my sins
I am well punished.

It is possible

in retrospect
after some consideration
that I was not the greatest of guests
when I stayed on your couch
for those three months
last spring.

I have talked it over
with advice columnists and gurus
and we have concluded
that drinking all your beer
and orange juice
and heart medication and drano
was perhaps somewhat rude.

In addition,
the act of soiling your sheets
was disrespectful
and should not have been repeated
with such regularity
and specific aim.

I find it hard to apologize
but I recognize
that trying to sleep with your boyfriend
was uncouth
– though irrelevant, really,
since he would have none of me.

All told
I must admit
that the occurrences
of last spring
were inconsiderate
and uncool
and regrettable, certainly
and will absolutely not be repeated
if you let me move in tomorrow
– though, this time
I’ll need the bed.