jonberger

101

The band was good,
but not as good as the competition.
In April, they played with the new kids in town,
letting those rotten Johnny-come-Latelies
open for them
and the singer saw the future of rock’s rule
like looking down the a pistol’s short barrel.

In April, the singer saw the truth
that his was a dead end career
like some sad member of the SS
doing the pub crawl in ’45.
It was all over
but was all beginning
and the singer quit his own band,
hoping to raise a ruckus
like the competition.

The band didn’t like it
but the singer didn’t care
if he forced a crisis.
He didn’t mind a clash
as everyone would discover.

He simply needed complete control.

SAY GOODBYE TO HOLLYWOOD

When they syndicated Bosom Buddies,
one of the finest shitty sitcoms in the seventies-eighties,
they presented it with a brand new theme song
that had actually been the original.

Though they perhaps thought
they had got it right that first time,
i was not as good
as the one that had aired
when the series was fresh
performed by a local artist
in a New York state of mind.

Why would they mess with the show?
In that second wind
they messed with our childhoods
– how I loved those days
treasuring the boy’s adventures under pressure
and their honesty tested
so often.
I miss the show as it was meant to be
when initially presented.

Had they not butchered the past
had they left that tender moment alone
I would have watched those reruns
over and over again.
But now,
I don’t care anymore…

CLUBBING

The girl to his left has amazing cleavage
but he’s with the girl to his right
so he coughs, bends over
and ogles as well as he can.
His girl knows what he’s doing though,
and glares while he stares
and the band rocks out.

The leftern gel catches on,
lights out,
and his eyes follow her
until his girlfriend smacks him down.
“What?” he asks.
“Leave her alone,” she growls,
just enough to make him afraid
while the rhythm section gets chunky.

She stalks out
maybe to the bathroom
maybe not
and he’s alone
where a minute before he had beautiful women on all sides
and he can’t help but feel that somehow in some way
he is partially to blame
but
there’s nothing for it
but to make te most of the evening.
He orders his eighth scotch and soda
at this bar
and the drummer drops a solo.

“What’s your sign?” he asks some girl
who turns out to be a guy that tells him “Stop.”
Our hero moves around the club
dancing with whoever lets him
which is a small number
as he’s known around these parts
when his girl returns
and gives him something else
that causes fright
and as the drinks and the beating
come together
in a perfect storm of unconsciousness
the band stops and says, “That’s all. Good night.””

Dear Bobby,

I was shamed into reading your last book
because your latest has just come out.
It has rested on my desk
since you signed it for me
on the last book tour
three years ago.

You wrote: “Good luck, John”
which made it well worth buying in hardcover
instead of downloading illegally
despite the fact that you spelled my name with an H
where it doesn’t belong.

I meant to read it immediately
and then within the month
and by the end of the year,
it was more like a sculpture
at a work desk I rarely used.

You’ve always been sonething
of an inspiration to me,
enough to make me identify
as a writer
though my writing desk
sits vacant
as does my brainpan
of ideas
that would make me
the next you.

My attention span gets in my way.
When I should be writing,
I am reading
and when I should be reading,
I’m watching the news
and when I should be watching the news,
I’m spanking one out.

I don’t know why I’m telling you that.
I don’t even know why I’m sending this out
except to say
I liked your last book
and wish
that I’d picked it up
before it was available in paperback
and that I was worthy
of those well-wishes
from three years ago.

ALL APOLOGIES IX

Apologies to Jeannie:
I didn’t know better
– really.
I had no better way
to get your attention
and still don’t.
I was so scared,
so ashamed of my body
but amazed by yours
that all I could do
was offer innuendo
and start rumors
and try to get you alone
on the stairs
where I would do nothing but stammer
and spout Monty Python lines
Incorrectly.

You’d been nothing but kind to me
and I was nothing but rude to you
and, today,
a dozen plus years later,
I wish I had become a man
worthy of you
back then
but the strippers and bag ladies who know me best
would probably disagree.

I was an awful boy to you
while mistakenly trying to be man.
If it’s any consolation,
the boy I was is kept locked away
for the murder of the man I never became.

I am so sorry
and I hope you turned out well
despite me.

BEARING WITNESS

I swore
the next time
I saw you
I would say hello
introduce myself
not stare at your chest
and ask to get to know you better

I have spent too long
living in the shadow of satisfaction
hoping for things to go my way
while making not the slightest effort.
I have watched you pass too many times
without interceding.

Twenty three missed opportunities
is twenty five too many
and the next time I see you
I will be speaking to you
making impressive introductions
and not staring at your chest.

…
Or maybe the time after that.

SUNDAYS

You remember Sundays?
At the old apartment?
You’d be reading the Times
or working on a paper
wearing one of my ratty t-shirts
with a stupid saying
like “Got Cream?”
or “I’m not prejudiced; I hate everybody.”
You would be poring over whatever you were doing
furrowed brow and colored pencils scribbling
leaning over in my outsized clothes
with your amazing cleavage
and I’d always suggest a blow job
and you’d always decline.

You remember then?
It wasn’t so long ago.
You used to tolerate me back then
much more than today.

We would go for lobg walks:
in the park
to the bridge
past a museum
and I would beg to take a break
a rest
any respite for my poor poor tootsies
and you’d politely decline.

You made me do so much
I didn’t want to do
that ended up being so good for me.
I doubt I ever thanked you.

I walk alone these days
as you’ve no doubt heard
since you got custody of our friends
while I kept the requests for Sunday blow jobs
while Steve got the real thing
– or so I imagine
when I’m reading the paper
to myself
with furrowed brow
in my too tight t-shirts.