jonberger

If you dip in the ink of the drink in the sink
If you breathe in a world once held by Doc Seuss
then when asking me how I am, I may wink:
I’m as loose as a goose in a noose that broke loose.
I am flying as high in the sky as a pie
that got thrown from a throne by its owner: high flown!
If you hear what I’m saying today sans dismay
It’s that things are now looking foreverly playful.

I live a knife’s edge life, rife lacking strife
and partying artistically, particularly with heart.
I am craving a brave world, and waiving the grave trade,
doing daring deeds, drop d’name before d’cart.
When heroes are zeroes and Nero is naught
but barely a musician, living lonely in the land
then you might find a right mind, a light rind,
a tightened wind, to tune a piano into baby grand.

The nothing is everything, everything’s aught,
and all we can ask for is iggledypop.
But Iggledy-Pop happens to be my cousin
as well as the best thing offered at the shop
and the shop is a ship at the corner of worship
and worship is warning and warning means war.
All of this awfully weirdness means something
substantially more than you ever asked for…

In seeking to write different poems,
I’ve discovered triolet,
Eight simple lines will call it home.
In seeking to write different poems,
how very far this form can roam
this structure can be thought as loam.
In seeking to write different poems,
I’ve discovered triolet.

Your head hurts
but you’ve gotta get it together.
There are things that need to happen
with no one else
prepared to do them.
This is no night for lolly-gagging
– or some other word that actually made it
into the twenty-first century.

You’ve been told to provide the laughs
as if there’s a simple formula for that.
Well, maybe there is:
insert cream pie onto unsuspecting face.
Laughs ensues.

Tools are required, though.
“Who’s got my beautiful pie?”
“Who’s got my unsuspecting face?”

No, this will not do.
You haven’t the materials or the temperament to comedy on the spot
– not on command like this.
Unless you pull down your host’s pants.
“Punch up!” They always say.
That should do it.
Not sure you’d be rewarded the way you’d hope, though.

Why do these assignments come like this?
Last minute,
no preparation,
no support?

Of course, here is the opportunity to grow.
To achieve great things.
Here is where you can make a stand,
make a mark.
Make ’em laugh.
Just vomit on the spot.
That’ll get ‘er done.
Trust yourself.
Have you ever steered yourself wrong?

Well, all right, but today?

Well, all right, but this hour?

Fine, I got nothing.

Lately I have had discussions with my mother
about things that happened in the distant past.
Things from my youth,
that I dredge up
to lay out and present
as amusements
for others.

I ask for verification
about events as I saw them
and she has no idea what I’m talking about.

This doesn’t surprise me overmuch.
Events as I see them feature too much of me centrally:
“So there I was, driving the minivan -”
“At six years old? I don’t think minivans were in production yet,
and we certainly never owned one.”
“But that was the spirit of the story, Mo’om…”
So I figure my imagination took me places in those early memories
that it had no right to place me.

Of course, as time beats the skin of old age
(or something equally dire)
Mom’s memories may be fading on their own.
When she doesn’t remember events,
they may have occurred,
it’s just that she can’t recollect them.

And there are no other witnesses to verify stories for us.
How lonely.

Julia said if I wanted to get Lucky,
Dexter’s Bar on Avenue B was the best place to look.
“What if I don’t want to get Lucky?” I asked.
She threw my keys at me. I caught them,
so I didn’t get beaned or anything.
I headed out to Dexter’s.

Sure enough, the bartender pointed me to Lucky at a booth in the back.
She was slumped over a table with some geriatric feeling her up.
“Enough o’ that,” I said, pulling him off, then lifting her
by the back of her shirt. “Luck? Wake up.”
“I’m up!” she said, “What’s it to ya?”
“Julia wants you back at her place.”
“Whatever, man,” Lucky said, “I’m having a fine time here.”
“Like I give a shit? Julia asked me to get you. Let’s go.”
She grumbled, but Lucky stood herself up and tried to collect her jacket.
Her coordination was not, at the moment, stellar.
“What do you need, Luck? Lemme help you out.”
She pointed, but I already could guess what was hers.
Lucky’s ragged punk fashion sense was all too clear.

The walk back to Julia’s was winding, slow.
Lucky was unsteady, so every now and then my hand would close on her shoulders
and we would walk together until her gait seemed to improve.
“You gotta get your act together, Luck.”
“Y’know, you might be the first person to tell me that all week, Lar.”
“Amount you drink’s gonna kill you.”
She chuckled and said, “You got a faster way?”
I was quiet for a minute or two until I muttered, “That’ll kill your sister, too.”
which I think shut her up pretty well.
We walked pretty quiet the rest of the way.

“Here we are!” Lucky shouted in the house.
“You don’t look great,” Julia said from the kitchen, “Go wash up. This’ll be stew, eventually.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Lucky was again too loud, but dutifully headed to the bathroom.
“Dexter’s?” Julia asked.
“Dexter’s.”
She sighed. I sighed. “You figure we can access a state-run program again?”
She shook her head. “Pretty sure they’ve got an eight strikes rule in by now.”
It’s not like this was a new conversation, anyway. It felt pretty performative.
“What’re we gonna do?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Exactly how Luck would have it, I guess. Same as always.”
She signed again, and returned to her stew.

All right, clearly, I said that wrong
and I just want to say
that I am so SO sorry.

I just wanted to fuck with you
I did NOT mean to suggest molesting
your recently deceased father.

I don’t know where that came from
and again, I apologize.
It was meant to be a joke.
– not that joke, but…

Look, it wouldn’t make sense,
now that we’ve gotten off on this tangent –
I don’t want to have to –
No, it’s just that –
I –

Yes, I was suggesting molesting your recently deceased father.
But I’m really sorry about it NOW, see…

When your stomach empties out
like you’re on your fourteenth stout
it must be love.
If you find that you can’t speak
without that itty bitty squeak
it must be love.

When you see you’re losing steam
and you’re slow like in a dream
it must be love.
If you’re speaking all in rhymes
but they’re mostly off in time
it must be love.

If your dancing steps are bad,
that’s pretty normal for you, lad;
still you’re in love.

When you stop killing your bugs
and begin to give them hugs
that might be love.
If you listen to her fart
and declare that it’s fine art
that’s probably love.

And if you uncover a mess
until she pours into a dress
you maybe found love.
But when you come to the conclusion
that her beauty’s no illusion
it’s surely love.

Now if you start coughing up blood
and then it starts to flood.
That’s probably not love.

Better consult a doctor.

In the Long Ago When of my teaching years,
a television was brought in
so the children could watch the procession
for Richard Nixon’s funeral.

They were elementary school kids
in underfunded areas of the Bronx
who would have been on top to know
that Clinton was in office at the time.

For them to have been aware of Nixon and Checkers
and Kennedy and Vietnam and Cambodia
and Watergate (great gods! Watergate!)
would have been astonishing.

But we gave them the experience
and we fielded their questions
and it got me out of some inexperienced
language arts lessons plans I had on the books.

The kids learned a little bit about bad presidents
and how the worst in their parents’ lifetime had gone down.
Perhaps they’d learn a little bit of “sic semper tyrannis,”
which might prove useful later in life.

I don’t know why I thought that might be of value.

Well, I certainly hope you’re proud of yourself.

Look.
LOOK! There are comic books to be read
videos to watch
tweets to be liked
– or, I don’t know, xeets?

You are falling behind.

You HAVE fallen behind.
You are definitely off your game here
because your priorities are absolutely fucked right now.
So get in the game
and luxuriate the way you’re supposed
and don’t respond
until you’ve had one hundred cookies,
do you hear me?

Someone’s got to wash the dishes.
Someone’s got to sweep the floors.
Someone’s got to be the one
to be responsible, of course.
If anyone should be that person,
I would like to volunteer
to be the one to point the finger
to you as the choice premier.

You would be the perfect person
to take reins on doing stuff.
I would love to try myself,
but I’d not do it well enough.
So I’m afraid it’s you or no one
– lest you’ve got a candidate
who you think could do it better?
One you think would be first rate.

Who would be a steadfast spirit?
Who could be responsible?
Who would come home, fumigate it,
clean our house by the roomful?
Who would serve us, do our bidding?
Who will be our patsy now?
Surely somewhere there’s a sucker
Who will take our shilling now?

If you cannot find one better,
then I guess you’ll have to do.
After all, it’s like I said,
no one works better than you!
Take it as a compliment;
you really serve as flunky well.
Just imagine what you’d do
should you ever learn to spell!

Oh, I’m sorry! That was rude.
I didn’t know your letters known.
Your numbers, too? How marvelous!
I didn’t realize castes had grown
industrious. How charming! Still,
the work you do need not require
you to do much more than clean
and burn your dead around this pyre.

I hope you’re be a steadfast servant,
a boy who is responsible,
a youth who can do what their told
and take instructions long and full.
Can you listen, do my bidding,
and obey at my address?
So listen well, and tell me know:
Is your answer “No” or “Yes”?