jonberger

UNDER THE GROUND

"Renters are fifty percent more likely than homeowners
to be buried alive."
I did not read that
on a poster this morning
while riding on the train
– though I thought I did.
I think I need new glasses.
I think I need more sleep.
I think I have to better prepare
for the morning commute
which takes me unawares
even after all these weeks.

Man was not meant to work
from nine to five
– or work at all.
The rats are scurrying on the tracks,
finding scraps of the breakfasts
we worker drones leave behind.
I am now a worker drone
but
I am NOT a worker drone.

How did I get to this place?
What made me become
this thing I am so wholly
unprepared to be?
When did my need to feed myself
become so strong
that I would don this tie and belt
and transform myself
into this creature
I can barely see in the filthy dark window
between stations?

Why am I asking myself these questions
and am I asking them aloud?
And finally,
where will I go
at Happy Hour
to steel myself
for the long voyage home
and the sad night ahead
so I’m ready to do it again
on Monday?

This damning morning,
I have no answers,
as I hurtle toward my destination
barely alive
and under the ground.

THE TRIP

She didn’t want me.
She swore that early on
before she knew what such things meant
she had sworn an oath upon eternity
that she would marry
a man named Mark Milton III.

"Is your name Mark Milton the Third?"
she asked
with a cruel innocence.
It was not
at the time
so she walked away.

The promises of youth
did not mean so much to me
so I searched for her soul mate
she had never met
to know him
and destroy him.

Is it possible that my quest
would bring them together?
That is always the risk of fate
that precisely what you do
to avoid the foretold
is what in the end
brings it about.

So I hunted him
and I failed to find him
and returned to find
my love who didn’t want me
still alone
forlorn
without her man of mystery.

So I changed my name
to better suit her needs.
I became what she wanted
and pray
she never asks
to meet my grandpa.

NOTIONS OF FLIGHT

When next you come calling
I’ll be wearing more clothes
taking fewer drugs
and talking less shit.

There will be none of the vomit
the crying, spying
or vying for attention.
The talk will be civil
and stay on topic.

I can’t explain
what went so wrong
but I can assure that it will not
again.
I will make no motions that are sharp
or leave you with notions of flight.
I swear
It’ll be different
this go-round.

What you experienced last
was an exception
which I’ll prove
the next time you come calling.

ACROSS THE ETHER

Dear Nadine,
Your pictures on your website
are so beautiful
so much moreso
than you were
when we met last week.

I had no idea you were such
an important artist
no idea how much you could help me.

Forgive me for not speaking to you
in the manner you are so accustomed.

Dear Simon,
Your behavior last week was boorish
irrational
and rare.

Few people act like that upon first meeting,
and fewer still have the chance to make restitution.

I am disappointed
that you seek to make amends
and wish you could continue
with your earlier
curlish ways.

Dear Nadine,
Fuck you.

Dear Simon,
Call me.

TOGETHER AGAIN

You know,
I don’t think they’re coming back.
They’ve been in the shed for a while now
and I think we’re on our own
for the rest of the night.
Me? I’m stuck here.
Judd was my ride.
Do you have a car?
I guess we can walk…
How well do you know Nancy?
You know, this is not at all
how I thought the night would go
but
I’m really glad I got to meet you
and
hope that we can spend some time
together again.

WEDNESDAY MORNING, 3AM

You’re drunk
and you’re messy
and it’s late
and you’re saying things
that you probably don’t mean.

If you want to continue this conversation
we can try again in the morning
if you remember anything.

I will be here
all the hours in between.
If you need me,
I’ll be on the couch.

FIVE YEARS FROM

Five years from now,
a change’ll have already come.
Five years from now,
this will all seem clear.

Five years from now,
She will have broken your heart three times more
and your brother’s twice.

Five years from now,
The cops will have found the hideaway
but the goods will have been fenced.

Five years from now,
your favorite bands
will have all broken up
except those that sold out.

Five years from now,
you will be a little wiser
a LOT older
a smidge wider
and a touch more cynical
but you’ll be hoping for a fresh breeze
to flow through
that will change everything.

Five years from now,
it will have all changed
and you won’t have noticed
because of the increments.

THE ONE

There is a poem about you
– one –
that I haven’t written yet.
It is a poem of exhilaration
and culmination
and sunswept scenes
in erotic locales.

It is a description of events
from epic fantasy
where we are happy
and content
and perfect for one another.

It is the one poem
– the one –
that I have not yet attempted
as I don’t have the creativity
to compose it.
I lack the skill
or the inspiration
though I hope to find then all
someday.

EATING C

You wanna get Thai?
I’m not sure
my stomach is ready for it
but I’ll go
if you want to.
Really, I’m good with anything.

You want Indian buffet?
How about that little Italian place I’ll never go to?
You want that tonight?
I’m cool with it
– or that chink place with the salad bar.
Only for you would I eat salad.

Anything, really
to be with you
to get to talk
to have a chance to…
burgers?
What do yiuu want?

Whatever you want,
we can do
tonight.

THE BOOK

When Elvis sings “Everyday I write the Book”
on stage
alone
accompanied by guitar,
he will have changed it much
since its eighties’ heyday.

The TKO horns are MIA.
The stellar backing of his longtime Attractions are gone
(it’s a solo performance, after all)
but most notably,
the backing vox of Afrodiziak are nowhere to be heard.

When Elvis chants “Every day” in the chorus
there is no one on stage to respond to his call.
The audience fills the role.
They are not asked to.
The performer wrote the song without the colored girls’ lines in mind; they were an afterthought
but they are the part most strongly remembered
in this almost successful tune.

The singer knows this
maybe
and tolerates the audience’s needs
to fill in the blanks of their youth
with the comforts of his song.
That is why many have come to see the Costello Show anyway.

So when Elvis utters “Every day,”
the audience responds immediately
with “Everyday!”
until they together sing “Everyday I write the book.”
It is beautiful
how we AutoComplete
our imaginations
with memories of how it’s supposed to be.