jonberger

You’ve always been of small imagination
of tiny scope.

There is a box
and you put yourself in it
and you grow to its confines.
You like the box
its shape
its protection.
You bless the box
and its cardboard guardianship.

It is easy to hate you
because of your weakness.

I am trying not to do that.
I am trying to respect your ability
and potential.
I am trying to understand your struggles
but you make it so hard.
Your limitations make it so easy
to go another way.

Please,
stop making it so hard
to give you a chance.

The hard stuff happens on Sundays.
It’s a long day; we’re both home,
no work, a time to relax, time to ponder
about each other and wonder
just what we’ve gotten into.

“Tell me the color of my eyes.” She says.
“Do you seriously not know?”
“I’ll bet you don’t know,” she responds.
I put down the dishes. I didn’t want to be doing them anyway.
“I don’t know. I don’t look you in the eyes.”

“Are you on the spectrum?” She asks.
“Possibly. I am incredibly sensitive to eyes.
Even saying the world repeatedly makes me tear up.”
“You’re weird.”
“This is not an update for anyone in this city.” I offer,
and shrug, “If I were to guess, I’d say asphalt grey.”
She throws a pillow. “They’re blue, idiot.”

Things thaw quickly, but something else will occur,
something else one of us doesn’t know about the other.
That, apparently,
is what Sundays are about.

I am a little surprised we have to go through this.
I’ve been around for a while, and I expect everyone knows me by now.
But if not, I got a lot of ways to say who I am.
This is one of them. Who am I? Who AM I? WHO AM I?

Well, I am the guy with the nose and the one with no hair.
I am the sort who speaketh words beyond compare.
I mean compare ’em to me. I’ll beat me easily.
It’s what I do, y’see. I’m Jon Berger.
Every day of the week.

That should clarify… with a little braggadocio to let you know-io how I go-io.
I mean, I don’t like to insult others, so basically,
I threw shade on me, because I deserve it. You know what I did yesterday?
You wouldn’t believe it…

Well, was it yesterday? Or sometime last year?
That puppet Jonny B just admitted his fears
to a crowd of three cuz that’s all who’d see
that’s little punk he’s such a crappy MC.

Word. That’s what it’s like. Fuck Jon Berger! But also:
Praise Jon Berger. I’m the best. I got a website
and some socials and you should give me money and credit
and also respect my family and drive my car ‘cuz I’ll be a star
and come in through my bathroom window and shit.

You know that great producers wanna work with this guy!
Also master DJs cuz his rhymes so fly
– or maybe a dope word from this century.
The current expressions matters little to me.

When we start our atomic devices,
let us not begin a chain reaction
that destroys all life in the universe!

This was a prayer they gave
at the time of the Manhattan Project.
Maybe not a bad one to continue with
indefinitely.

What does distance tastes like?
I have wondered, but have no answer.
I can tell you what distance does not taste like.
It does not taste like the chicken schnitzel you used to make,
with the mashed potatoes and gravy,
but then curiously stopped.
I used to love that, and then it was gone.
I always wondered why you refused to prepare that anymore.

It also tastes nothing like the steak
that was so frequently part of our regular menu
and then was also missing.
Were the ingredients too expensive?
I never got word.

Even hamburgers seemed to prove too expensive
for the house, eventually.
Food proved rich for our blood
and the plates got smaller,
until finally, only hors d’oeuvres were served.
They were never really to my liking.

We grew apart,
even as I was visiting you many nights a week.
It was like you were preparing me
for your dissolution,
informing me
about a life without you.

I appreciate that.
It made it easier to say goodbye.
Still painful,
but
easier.

The taste of distance,
I suppose,
should I guess,
would be
hunger.

I’ve been trying to dig deeper,
to understand why me and you seem to be more than us
and the truth is I’m not getting to an answer.

Maybe for this my soul has nothing but smoke
and mirrors, really.
What I’m feeling?
Thinking? Imaging?
Perhaps my fear of us
is based on projection.

But I haven’t come to what I’m projecting
or from where.
My conclusions are not coming
and my truth is just possible whisps, really.

Maybe truth doesn’t come
through heavy cider consumption.
Bathroom resumption sure does, though.

Digging deeper does not do everything
I hoped it would.

April told me that the writing would get small
but I was too busy living life like I was six feet tall
that I ignored her completely – and now, all
of her words are just scrawled upon the wall.

April’s premonition has finally come to pass.
It didn’t even take that long, but surely it will last.
Whatever her predictions, they will come true en masse.
Shit. I’ll need a quintuple bypass.

I’ll do whatever April says; whatever she commands.
Only she can fix for me the future as it stands.
Provide her the control of all my money and my lands.
I suppose my destiny is now entirely in her hands.

I can’t see the future or much of anything.
But April says she does and will and so to her, I sing:
Please fix the future for me! I’ll give you everything!
I beg of you, please turn it so I’m back on the upswing!

Aashish calls late at night
thinking of the diamond days
when life seemed shiny and so bright
and we lived off of D-rays
and snack foods sugared with each bite.
How those years were bright and gay!
– but in a het way. Got that, right?
Gay panic was a thing then, ey?

Aashish calls well after dark
once his drink has gotten on.
His voice is raspy; thoughts are stark.
Though he’s not seen, his face sounds drawn,
his words will sometimes miss their mark
but his sentiment is strong.
His words fly by: spirit, spark.
It seems he’ll talk until the dawn

but then, at once, Aashish will flop.
His energy will take a dive
and he will state our time’s been chopped.
After all, it’s ten of five
so we must break. Our call must drop
until the next time it’s revived.
With that, we end. We sleep. We stop.
This way, Aashish keeps our friendship alive.

I never used to be the sort of adult person
who ever thought of others with consideration.
See, I used to sneak in free to see the latest movie flick
never thinking of the losses to the theater-man’s small dick.

Though it cost me little, Richard spent a pretty penny, man.
Trust me when I say now I’m as different as I can.
Believe it, baby. Though it may sound quite deranged:
Whatever you once thought of me is over now. I’ve changed.

I’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’ve changed.
I’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’ve changed.
You thought I had the mange; perhaps I was deranged. But believe it,
baby: now, I’ve changed!

The man who I formerly was is gone;
what you see before you is now totally bonne
chance, which in French translates right into "Good Luck!"
Personally, I don’t care if you’re stage-struck or what, but…

I’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’ve changed.
I’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’ve changed.
You once thought me strange; maybe wanted me exchanged. Trust me
honey, how I’ve changed!

I know we had our problems but they’re over cuz I’ve changed
and now all of our former history’s rearranged.
I feel some of our past was a little short-changed
but that’s all right, Mama, I’m only in this short-range.

Love me for a long time, or just a little while.
I’m here for you now, with this mighty big smile.
Believe it Sweetie-Snookums, no more working on the Grange.
We got it going on for us; we’re here and I’ve changed!

I’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’ve changed.
I’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’ve changed.
I thought we had forever; if it’s shorter, that’s so strange. I won’t
worry ’bout it, ‘cuz believe me, I’ve changed!

Hey, today I am easy.
I am agreeable.
I see the restaurant’s insert and it looks good.
I’ll have that.
No substitutions.

It’s an MOR kind of day.
This is not like me,
and I must say, I like it!
If you have any requests of me
on this easy day,
I suggest you make ‘em.
Who knows how long this might last?

Huh.
Well, that didn’t last long at all.