jonberger

You will just have to trust me on this:I am a man and I have been around mustaches before.
Yours is not a good mustache.
Yours is the opposite of good.
Yours may very well be evil.
It certainly does not have your best interests at heart
and I think wishes to do you ill.

I would very much advise you
divorcing yourself from that thing
at the earliest opportunity.

If there is a chance to do it sooner,
I would take that chance.
Jump on that chance,
and thank it for the privilege.

Your mustache is a misery upon the world.
No offense.

The bees in the trees are wheedling for fees.
Willis wondered what the hell I was talking about.
“There are creatures from the apiary
up in the flora seeking recompense
for financial transactions,” I said.

“What sort of financial transactions?”
Willis asked.
I suggested we ask the bees.
“We’re trying to get better rates for our services,”
one of the many bee agents buzzing around explained,
“We pollinate a variety of crops, like cucumbers,
watermelons, okra, pumpkins -”
“- eggplant?” I added.
“I skip eggplant, because I don’t like it.” said the bee.
“Anyway,
we want better rates.
“So why’re you doing your business in the trees?”
“That’s where the birds are.”
Willis looked at me. I looked at Willis.
Pretty obvious, when you think about it.

I don’t know how the negotiations went.
I hope the bees got their due.
At least I know what all the buzz was about.

And there are days when you can’t feel the room for what it is.
When you can tell that you failed,
and then you talk to people afterward,
and they say, “Good job. I really liked that piece,”
and comment on specific lines,
showing they were paying attention.

It doesn’t happen often.
I think I have a good sense of what’s going on,
most of the time.
But there are occasions
where you don’t know
which end is up.
So maybe someone could direct me today?

In return the man sends words of thoughtful erudition
though wishes rather to send him directly to perdition.
His rhymes are timed and careful, quite polite and kind
and when you dig into them you can feel the rage behind.

Aashish seeks to avenge himself for wounds struck through art
and believes composing poetry will do its part.
He send out lines quite lyrical directly to his friend,
knowing oh so well that this is not where it will end.

Knowing oh so well that this is not where it will end.

There’s gonna be some difficulties coming up.

Some of the open mics I go to are starting to take pictures of the acts
and putting ‘em up on social media.
I’m a media whore as much as the next media whore,
but I’m afraid the pictures are gonna catch me up in something.

I was in Manhattan on Monday,
wearing this neat new guitar shirt
– got some compliments on it.
Pictures are up of me reading.
Now I’m reading on Wednesday.
I’m wearing this neat guitar shirt.

If I’m filmed wearing the same stuff,
I’ll just die.
Better get out in front of it.

This place changes when you’re around.
The rules change.
The dimensions seem different,
the shape of what needs to be done,
where and when.

It’s weird: it takes some getting used to
when you return
from your jaunts.
It’s hard to acclimate.

I’m not saying it’s a bad thing

but I’m not saying it’s not.

The sweat doesn’t fling the way it used to.
I don’t know why that is.
Do I not work so hard?
Is there just less weight to work with?
Am I no longer… a sweater?

I’d been a sweater all my life
just pouring that shit out of every gland.
Now, like PJ, I’m just left dry.

It’s not like it’s a bad thing.
It’s just not the me I know.
Who am I these days?
What is this creature I have become?
Like John Entwistle, who are I?

There’s no answers,
almost like Elvis Costello.

At first I tried to ignore them,

afraid that any attention I might lavish

would get one of them thinking I wanted to buy their wares
– not something I wanted to deal with in my neighborhood.

When they kept up their sales tactics through the pandemic, though,
I started trying to engage in conversation.
I approached an older lady.
She was dressed relatively modestly:
tight jeans, tight metal t-shirt, and open coat.
It was winter, so the coat was necessary.

“How’s business?” I asked.
“Not bad,” she said carefully. She’d seen me around. I wasn’t a narc.
“You seeing the same kinds of customers these days? The same kinds?”
She nodded thoughtfully, walking off.
“The dongs remain the same.”

I watched her go, dumbfounded.

The mask I wore for the Pandemic
was one made for me special
by a friend who has a way with a needle and thread.
Then I lost it.
The she made another.
Then I found the original again.
I guess there’s no harm in having more than one mask.
I really only maintained one.
Now, I tend not to wear any
even though it’s probably smarter to be safe.

It’s the Flitcraft Story,
all over again,

Where you get used to traumatic experiences,
and then get used to not traumatic experiences.

It’s a Hammett thing; you wouldn’t understand.

You think no one’s paying attention

but they’re paying attention.
They’re paying attention
all over you.

They’re paying attention to your back
they’re paying attention to your head
they’re paying attention to your chest
and parts that you’d not be thinking of:
earlobes, kneecaps, knuckles,
sweat lines, eyeglass crud, what have you.

They are paying attention, buddy!
Trust me.