jonberger

MIRTH DAY

Is this a joke?
This item
you’ve placed before me
this thing you claim is a gift,
a prize,
mine to hold and treasure
from this day forward
this inheritance
that you provide me
…why would I ever want it?

What makes you say
this thing that you’ve handed me
is something I should appreciate
should work to maintain
to improve
to heal.
In the shape I’ve received this lemon,
why shouldn’t I trash it and start fresh?
Why can’t I give it back
and make you breathe life
back into its holey carcass?

Why should this alleged present
be such a responsibility?
No, fuck it. I refuse.
I won’t sign for it.
You can shine this shit
but that don’t make it diamonds.
Keep your thing
I forsake it.
I will not take this consolation prize
that I don’t deserve.

BLEECKER STREET EXEGESIS

I’m dreaming of a Bleecker Street
that I don’t know – that none has ever seen.
It thrives in the back of my heart
in the borough known as Queens.

What the author is referring to is a residential block in the Brooklyn-Queens bordering neighborhood called Ridgewood. It’s a blue collar, working class community that includes numerous ethnicities residing in tandem. Amongst them are Slavs, Poles and Italians. Also: hipsters.

There is a bar upon the corner,
awaiting to be discovered
where serving wenches aim to please
in ways as yet uncovered.

Windjammers, an old style pub at the intersection of Bleecker and Forest Streets, is notorious for it’s sexist and degrading hiring practices. Neighborhood scuttlebutt has it that no girl over 25 need apply, and that, for employment, measurements are considered more than Curriculum Vitae. Service is not known to be strong at Windjammers, but seats are nonetheless difficult to come by.

If you make your way to this fine club upon a hill

Artistic license is taken by the author. The business is on a flat, planar street.

be sure to give a tip of your hat to the waitress known as Jill.

Jillian Partowski has had several run-ins with the authorities: two drunk and disorderlies, three narcotics possession charges, and two counts of prostitution.

She will satisfy your soul in ways true and sublime
but leave that girl alone because you know that she is mine.

The author, likely a part-time pimp, is presumably using the poetic form to drum up business. There are other employees of Windjammers that are suspected of being involved in illegal activity, but none with Miss Partowski’s arrest record. The degree of doggerel in the verses included support the popular interpretation that the author is not a professional poet, despite the evidence of hipsters in the community at the time of publication. Frequent Windjammers at your own risk.

GIFT CARD FROM YOUR STALKER

I know this is your neighborhood
but don’t know where you live.
If I had that knowledge,
oh what I could give
to you, your rabbit
and the others in your tribe…
The alcohol I’d offer that your room-mates could imbibe…
all of these would pale before the greatest gift of all:
my presence as a present.
If you want me, dear, just call.

SEPARATE DREAMS

The police found him
such as he was
in an abandoned corpse of a car
in hand-me-down jeans
and a look of shock
on the rest of his face.

He had, we learned,
been daring more,
month after month
for a very many.
He would wait
well past dark,
until we all
had found our separate dreams
before he went to follow his.

His diary uncovered
incessant adventures
as he dived into the deep end
searching for sharks.
And he found them
predators with rows of teeth
that chose to gnaw
instead of bite
until eventually
he found a chickenhawk.

It was all there
in a diary
in a room
right next to mine
– his cupboard leaning on our shared wall.
Nothing needed to be decoded.
His words were clear
his eyes wide
as he described the world he wanted.

And even
we were blind – no.
We were blindered
by our own hands
refusing to see
what his classmates saw
what the night witnessed
what his enemies hated him for.

He could have told us.
He should have told us,
though we were glad to ignore his truth.
So long as I didn’t have to be told,
I was fine.
But if I’d know,
he might still be next door,
in his room.
He could still be writing in his journal,
sharing secrets we refused to hear.

Dude,
I was so wasted
when I wrote this poem
I had no idea what was going on.

I just put the words down
and then:
MAN ALIVE!
They were a poem!
Can you believe it?
I just got the inspiration,
got to typing
and then,
it was there, you know?

This is great;
it’s how art should be.
It’s how life should be.
It’s how we should be
just working on things
getting them done
and, and
feeling good about them.

I wish everyday was like this
with the poems just like
happening.
This is a happening, man.
So, dude…
You wanna light it?

LINE OF DEMARCATION

Does this shiny shirt
make me look too douchey?
I expect my look to be ever so slightly offensive
but
with this outfit
do I cross the line of demarcation
into douchebagbery?

I can take the truth.
Give it to me straight:
Do these shoes gayify me?
Are they too long?
Too name-brandy?
I don’t want to appear too fashion conscious.
Does my hairdo make me look twat?

Help me!
You must be my mirror.
How is my fashion?
I cannot identify for myself
what needs to be done.