jonberger

EFFIE’S CHOICE

This just boggles my mind.
Usually, you can tell pretty easily
who the prettier friend is,
the hotter one,
the most popular.
You can figure out,
with the first glance,
the dynamics of the friendship
and the tension of their teamwork.

But with you two,
you two young
vibrant and firm creatures,
I cannot piece it together
have no clue which of you
I should more actively lust after.

It’s not like you’re carbon copies,
girls who insist on identically
so your identities can be subsumed into the whole.
You are unique enough
to avoid that fascistic ideal.

So which is it?
Of you two,
who is the better bitch to be
my object of desire?
The blonde or redhead?
With glasses or barrette?
The short skirt or tight skirt
or… What?

I cannot decide.
I can’t choose between you two.
Who should I want?
You’re just both so ugly…

THE FORTY FOUR

It creeps,
this insidious thing,
traveling slowly, stealthily,
sometimes circuitously
down a long and windy road,
heading ever closer
to its destination
which is you.

It may seem like forever,
the time it takes
to arrive,
granting you some glorious gift
eventually.
It may seem like forever,
but comes far too soon, too
presenting its final kiss
upon culmination.

This is the day
at the end of a long and windy way
that it comes to you.
Make of it
what you will.

SIXPENCE

She made me sing a new tune
and, after experiencing her,
I no longer wished to be single
but rather,
sought extended play.

I sought to reverb her
so she’d repeat the things
I had tried to say so ineloquently
but
with each repetition,
the sound, the sentiment,
the entirety of the experience
degraded until
it became a mishmash
of senseless phrases
I couldn’t understand.

It turned me off,
what she did,
so I flicked the switch
to the Mute mode
and never heard from her again.

ALI’S INSISTENCE

It was funny
when Ali would sing,
“Do you wanna get fucky?”
when he meant to say “funky.”
His English wasn’t great,
but his mastery of the rock idiom
was pretty impressive.

So we laughed along
as he said silly words
and he exploded on the stage,
commanding us to dance
to his illiterate tune.

We did want to get “fucky”
at Ali’s insistence.
We moved and swayed
and sweated
to his guitar.

He killed us quickly
with his nimble fingers
and incomprehensible songs.

We enjoyed Ali’s shows
and his accidental demeanor.
We treasured him locally
until
he took English lessons
and fixed his pronunciation
and then
he was like everyone else.

Close sesame.

The sketches she made
on the quad
were never of me
because I was always behind her,
watching what she did
as she watched all of them.

Her sense of composition was flawed
but her sense of compassion
was sound
as she painted picture after portrait
of fragile souls.

She captured something special
secret, sublime
in her unsuspecting subjects,
many of whom she knew
and some whom she knew
better than she knew.

Does that make sense?
It doesn’t matter.
My words mean nothing
before the memory of her illustrations
– three of which I was able to steal
but none of which survived
to this day.

IF WORD

She said “Fuck”
just the right way
but didn’t say it to me.
She only said it NEAR me
which really isn’t
the same thing at all.

She said “Fuck” so gloriously,
though,
that I had to try
to engage her
in some way.

So:
“Fuck you.” I said.
“Fuck off.” I told her.
“Wanna fuck?” I asked.

These did not get the reaction
I had hoped for.
No luxurious rolling
of the glorious word
in wondrous phrase after phrase.

Instead?
Her stunned silence,
her spiteful stare
and a striking departure.
No further use
of her stunning speech
or that wonderful
whimsical word.
.

Fuck it.

THE STEPS

I didn’t tremble
as I walked up to her
and I didn’t cough
before I made my intro
and I didn’t mumble
when I told her my name
and I didn’t blurt it out,
either.

I didn’t say “You’re crazy hot,”
and I didn’t talk to her friends
and I didn’t tell her how long it’s been
since I was inspired
to this kind of action
and I didn’t beg her to sleep with me.
Not with words.
Not with gestures
but maybe
using a variety of alternate means of communication
that were unsuccessful.

I didn’t impress her.
I didn’t seal the deal.
I didn’t get the digits
or even her Twitter tag.
I did not get what I wanted
but I got out
and I got up to her
and though I got shot down
I got into it,
and that’s something,
right?

MAYBE IT WAS OORLA

There was a girl
Allison or Agnes
or… maybe it was Oorla.
I dunno.
I told her I loved her
and I’d love her forever
and, for that moment
– maybe a night,
maybe a week,
maybe three pout two months –
I meant it
and believed it
and acted like it was true.

Now,
her name is lost to me
and what love
there might have been
evaporated into the ether
long ago.

It wasn’t false,
what I said to her
– though, honestly,
some things I said were –
but it wasn’t entirely
universally true.

I don’t love her now
and I hate to be made a liar
so I will not say those words again.
Some oaths
should not be uttered falsely.
I love you today
plan to love you tomorrow
and hope to love you
for all days further.

Will that do?

TOO TRUE

Don’t.
Really, just… Don’t.
The kinds of questions you ask
are not the kind
you really want answers to.
The answers may surprise you
and generate reactions far too true.

The poems you think are about you
are not.
The devotions you presume
are yours
belong to others:
your betters
superior
in most every way.

I told you:
if you ask,
I will answer.
Ours was a working biosphere
until you revoked
our own personal
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

WANDERING HEART

I think there has been
between us
one of those film-famed
failures to communicate.

When you told me
you were looking for a change
in your love-life
and I encouraged you
to take a chance
and experience new
exotic opportunities,
I did not think
we were talking about
you dating only surgeons.

Maybe I let my wandering heart
get too far ahead of me.
When we were talking loud slash saying nothing
last Wednesday,
I assumed you understood the gist
of my advice
since I’d sent you that poem
entitled “Date a Poet, Jenny.”
Perhaps you thought I spoke in metaphor.

I did not.
And you should not
date surgeons only.
In fact, Jenny,
to avoid any further confusions,
let me say:
You should certainly cease
all others of the artistic ilk,
but poets
should remain on your radar
or, at least,
one should.