jonberger

"The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill" is only one song away
from "Happiness is a Warm Gun"
on their original home, The Beatles.
It seems somehow plausible to presume
that "Happiness" is part of the "Continuing Story"
and that their author,
a Mister Lennon of some renown,
wanted to attach the tales.

The John in question never associated those accounts
so this theory may be for nothing
but what if there’s some great connecting flesh
between the songs on The White Album?
Perhaps "Dear Prudence" was eating "Glass Onion"s
while singing about the life going on.
Anything is possible in art.

It’s something to think about.
"Good Night."

They say to be authentic,
you must show yourself to be vulnerable,
so herein is where I outline my weaknesses
for anyone to know
my unique authenticity.

I’m ticklish to the point of incontinence,

so I might make a mess if you touch up on me
at the right time.
The window near the kitchen is never locked,
so you could probably break into my apartment that way.
There’s a sock in the sink
where the real goodies are kept.

My password for most everything is Jonst*r#3 It’s #3 because I was brought up not to think too much of myself.
You can write that down.

If you spin me around more than three times
I won’t be standing again for some time.
And speaking of sitting down,
I may have been drinking a little bit
while thinking up this little rinky-dink exposition.

I’m sure I’ll still love the idea in the morning.

One time, I swore I could eat a thousand raisins,but I didn’t even get to eat a hundred raisins,
because my mom wouldn’t give me more than ten raisins
so I stopped at about five.

It’s not that cool a story, really…

I am frightened of introducing conversation
with the prostitutes on my block
for fear of suggesting I wish for their wares.
Particularly because of the hours I keep
– I usually come in after midnight,
when they’re out and about,
and though I’d like to be polite and friendly,
I don’t want that mistaken for business-curious.

If I could bridge that gap,
I think I would be a more socially aware person.
I have not consciously interacted with prostitutes before.

If I knew what to do,
I would know what to do.

The doctor said, “Let us make a change on your regular schedule of medicines.”
And I said “All right,” because that was the reason I had gone to her that day,
and she pronounced, “you shall now begin to take a new potion!”
but the potion board did not agree and they said so.

I am now waiting for a consultation between the doctor and potion board
to decide what is best for my health
– not because the potion board has my best health in mind
(probably the very opposite) – and then, perhaps,
better health will come my way.

Something to look forward to.
Something to hope for.
Something that will take days and days,
apparently.

The 103rd Quora window tab
didn’t need to be opened
any more than the 84th Quora window tab
or the 47th or the 29th
or the 15th or third.

Quora wasn’t a service that needed to be utilized at all.

I didn’t need to look up the answer to
“What is the most shameless thing you have ever seen a teacher do?”
or “What is the funniest joke you’ve heard about British Parliament?”
or “Sexy Do-Gooder Picture Worth 35000K Likes Here!”

Still, here I am.

I should close these windows.
I will close these windows.
I am closing these windows.

Shit, one more peek can’t hurt…

If I could give some advice
and leave it real short and precise,
I would not be the lunatic
to present it as a limerick:
That advice would just not suffice.

You can spend all the day pushing levers
but the process could take you forever
to find fortune and fame
just keep spouting your name.
That’s how presidents do it; they’re clever!

“The writing’s on the wall,” she said,
“If you don’t help me, I am out”
and strode past many dozens dead.
“The writing’s on the wall,” she said,
again – still uttered without dread
lacking bleats and weep and pouts,
“the writing’s on the wall,” she said,
“If you don’t help me, I am out.”

It’s rare to be recognized for your own unique self.
“Is Jon Berger here tonight?”
“That’s me!”
“Because I saw his name on the list, and I was just looking around…”
“It’s me. I’m here!”
“Great. It’s me, Baby Monroe.”
I knew. Baby Monroe was one of the stars
of the AntiFolk scene before my time.

He’s mentioned recognizing me a couple of times before.
Maybe I wasn’t a sweaty mess on those other occasions.
“Great to see you,” he said.
“I’ll see you at the club,” I said.
We parted ways.
He recognized me!

Sort of.