jonberger

You are a borough away
enjoying the afternoon
with wonderful weather
on this cloudless day
while I have all the clouds in my chest
coughing away
endangered by my own bad behavior
and worried about when
I’ll ever
be able to see you again.

There are so many times when I march to my own drummer.
So many times when I sing my own song.
So many times when I act of my own accord,
but I’m not always that strong.
So sometimes, I take a break, and decide to reverse track.
Sometimes, I declare that it is Opposite Day
and I look at things from a different perspective
and on those days I will say:

“When in Rome, do as the morons do.
My actions will speak louder than bombs.
No picture’s ever worth too much reading.
I will not remain calm.”

This never lasts too long when I go reverse gear.
I’m usually back to myself within a week.
Although I said it was just Opposite Day,
what can I say? I’m just an Opposite Freak.
When I return, things do not seem normal.
The world seems worsened in some myriad ways.
All because I opted to switch directions
and joined the country in a chorus of say, hey heys:

“When in Rome, do as the morons do.
Good things come to those who don’t wait.
We’ll burn that bridge when we come upon it
and I am proud to hate!”

It’s so easy – as simple as A-B-C…
It’s so easy – to build a family…
If you want to disregard what you believe…
and move onto something else entirely…

“When in Rome, do as the morons do.
Time sinks when you’re having fun.
Speak of the devil, and then he disappears.
and I will jump the gun.”

A shadow person ate my toes.
How I still walk no one knows.
It might be that I now hobble,
moving like on stones of cobble.
It’s not a happy way to go
so keep away from clan shadow.
That is my advice today
and hope that shade folk go away.

Muscles ripple.Wind blows.
The child stares.
A mother cradles, wondering what this is going to cost
and in what way.

The boat ride is wonderful on the dark blue waters
of the French Riviera.
Though dressed at their best,
the mother and child living up to expectations
proves costly, as does this holiday.

It will be worth it, for the child’s memories.
So long as her child is content,
that is enough.

“Put your arms up!
Keep your fists tight.”
The guy that was fucking my mother
gave me instructions on how to fight.
It wasn’t going to come from my father.
We had less time together
and it wasn’t his bag, anyway.

I’d just gotten beaten up after school.
A kid who I’d gotten along fine with
had started kicking the wagon I was carrying,
so I dropped it and tried to put him in a headlock
– only he got into a boxer’s stance and kept his distance,
punching me repeatedly.
Eventually, I grew tired, picked up the wagon
and schlumped home.

Vaughn saw the need and stepped in.
When I got to the house, after I cleaned myself up,
Vaughn took me out again, so he could show me a few moves.
I didn’t become a fighter or anything, but I was better prepared
for fists than I’d been before that day.
That kid wouldn’t find me so easy to hit.
“Thanks, Vaughn, I love you.”

I don’t know why it slipped out so easily
or why I refused to say it ever again.

Earlier, the three pigs went to the water with their friend, the wolf.
As I said, it was a prior occasion, and they were on better terms,
but they still had a questionable understanding of substances.

They pigs decided to make boats to float in the lake,
each out of different materials.
The third pig, smart enough to realize that a brick boat
would probably not last long in this soldier’s seaway,
decided to make his ship out of cardboard, which was sturdy enough,
but capsized when the wolf blew it – just to give it a little push!

The second pig tried with her favorite material, wood.
There were no big logs about, and that would have tough
to build a tiny boat out of, so she assembled some twigs together
and fashioned something formidable, but the same winds from the wolf
blew the schooner apart, and though the pieces still floated,
they weren’t a ship no more.

The first pig, who liked hay, gave it a shot,
but since it was hay fever season, opted to work with tissue paper.
The same seasonal allergies left the wolf wheezy, giving the the piggy
a break from a breeze, but the boat got soaked,
being made of the absorbent material.
It went down almost immediately.

So the three piggies made no successful vehicles,
and decided to buy some at the concession stand.
The wolf lent them money, which might lend some motive
for later events.

There is no moral to this story, other than perhaps
“learn a bit more about what you’re going to build with,”
but maybe you knew that already.

I
have
become
quite concerned
of continuing
the repeated state of going
through the boring steps of my life ad infinitum.
If there is any escape to this ugly pattern, I could use some help finding it.
If you are in any position to help me in my quest, I’ve got a shiny new dollar coin for you – fresh from the bank – totally free!

The original beat
is sweet.
It makes me want to shake the meat
that makes me complete.

Ah… yeah.
Shake it.
I am embarrassed to be in this poem
and wish to be somewhere else.
If I could transport myself to be in another poem,
that would be my preference.

But now the beat is back
and I am ready to return to the attack.
This to you may sound wack,
but I am the master of the blasting tracks!

Oh, god. This is not who I thought I’d be at this time of life. I assumed I’d have become a more stable individual,
not restoring to this kind of aggressive machismo
in the middle of a poem.
What man am I?
What have I become?

I have become the lord of assertiveness!
I like to control the aggressiveness!
If you do not like this sort of likeness,
then you can move on, little miss selfishness!

Oh dear, oh dear. Oh dear.
I think this has divided my personality in two
in ways I never dreamed it would do.
I don’t want to have become such cliched identities.
No, I would rather be reconvened as one being again.

Bang! That’s unlikely to happen, son!
I don’t think we’ll even become one!
This is who we are until the song is done –
oh, it’s over…

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.