jonberger

Jackie talked about having all the money in the world
and Johnny said “What? I’ve got all the money in the world!”
and Jackie said, “No you don’t. I heard you.
You said you’ve got all the riches in the world.
That’s a very different thing. I heard you!”
“But they mean the same thing!” Johnny said.
“Naw,” Jackie said, “Riches are a wider category.
They can contain monetary value, but treasure would be included,
precious metals, property, other things of value.”
“That’s my point!” Johnny said, “If riches mean more things,
then I’ve got the greater array of stuff. And anyway,
riches are metaphorical, while money is just about the physical.
So I’ve got you there.”
“So you’ve got me there, Johnny.”
“Hand me the bottle, Jackie?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not, Jack?”
“Because we’re bugs stuck on a glue strip, Johnny.”

And they were,
and there they stayed.

The Golden Rule is functionally this:
the bug you kill today could be the asteroid that smashes you tomorrow,
so be fucking careful, lest you generate karmic retribution, motherfucker!
You could probably hold off on the profanities,
the violence, the threats and the self-interest
but otherwise the logic is pretty solid.

Just hold up to that standard
and you should be all right.
Basically: kill bugs only if they’re giving you shit
or if it’ll be really funny.

We good?

It is very hard to think back
on the people who have forsaken me
and remember that they once cared for me.

This is a universal problem.
I know I’m not alone here.

I recall my first girlfriend
who broke my heart with no hard feelings
– she just fell for someone else.
I was incredibly bitter for some time,
but now she won’t return my emails.

I have high school friends
I have harmed so grievously
that they are done with me
forever.
I can’t say I blame them.

I have other acquaintances
who just don’t see the use in me
where they used to.
That’s harder for me to swallow.
Could they have tired of me?
Am I no longer delightful?

It’s hard to accept that I am not cared for
though I certainly know that my emotions
have changed for people with time.
If my constancy is suspect,
how could I expect any more
from anyone else?
What standards am I possibly looking for?

As I walk toward her,
I know I’m about to fuck it up.
I don’t know what I’ll do wrong
but I know that my energy is all wrong now
and I know what happened.

Knowledge is the enemy.

When I started talking to this beauty
at the cafe, I was loose, ambivalent.
No expectations.
I mean, she was out of my range,
but I always think that; what else is new?

But we had so many similar touchpoints:
we liked the same writers, the same musicians.
Her cousin went to my college,
so she knew what I was talking about.
I did a film shoot at her college,
so I’d totally blacked out what she was talking about.
We’d really gotten along.

Then I went to the bathroom and did a search
and discovered that she is so much cooler than she seemed.
She is way out of my league.
I looked her up to seed some information into further conversation,
but how do I just mention “Olympic Bronze”
or “Publishing darling”?

I had offered to take her out for hot chocolate.
She should pay for the hot chocolate!

When I get back to the table
I am going to say something so awkward
almost immediately.
I feel so stiff and unnatural.

This is going to be disastrous…

He handed me the bottle and it tasted awful.
It wasn’t my first time with beer
but it was the first time outside.
I had no place to put the bottle
so I kept drinking.
It didn’t stop being awful
but maybe I was thirsty.

Buffalo Tom was on
and there was a mosh pit
with boys abusing each other
throwing their bodies into one another violently.
It seemed ridiculous. Dangerous.
I stayed on the periphery,
watching the band,
and pushing careless moshers back into the pit.
When I finished my beer,
I put it between my legs.
I was glad that was over with.
I was light-headed.
The childhood baby fat wasn’t enough
to provide me with a higher tolerance.
One drink could do me in.

Someone pushed me into the pit,
reeling into a dozen other kids
tossing arms and knees and butts into each other.
Pushing and elbowing and jumping.
It was wild and weird.
I tried to jump out
but was pushed back in
and decided I didn’t mind.
I took off my glasses
and had at it.

Let loose the knuckles of war!

Moshing proved fun.
Beatrice UTB came on.
They were a local band
with funny songs I didn’t understand.
I maintained my violence in the pit
as long as others would have me.
It was more exercise than I’d had in a while.
I was amazed that my clothes survived.

I would mosh at shows for years to come.
It seemed surprisingly safe in Western Massachusetts.
One beer remains my limit
– actually, that may be the only beer I completed,
since it continues to suck.

After the Beatles’ Anthology albums were released,
a play came out
in Liverpool and Ireland called BEST!
It was about Peter Best becoming an international sensational
while the Beatles were only one-hit wonders.
I haven’t seen it.

In our paltry world, Best released an original album in the aughts
called Haymans Green.
No covers of the Fab Four,
though the cover features a photo of Best
that had been omitted from Anthology 1.
Most songs were co-written by the drummer,
and had a Beatley feel to them.

Pete survives to this day.
They say the best revenge is living well.
We can only hope Pete has that.

There are things I’d like to say
but I’m not speaking to the dead these days.
I would, you know, but it just won’t pay
so I’ve stopped speaking to the dead these days.
I’ve renounced talk to the dead these days.
I’m tired wasting all my time talking to the dead.

The living have more active tongues
so I’ll spend my time with the mortals now.
They’ve got hidden bones and healthy lungs
that’s why I’ll spend time with the mortals now.
The mortals are just the best around!
So much better than the dead.

I’m not one for throwing stones,
but fuck you undead, very much.
and all you creeps just seem like drones.
Hell, you’re all losers, to the touch.
I hope you all disappear and such.
or maybe get explod-ed!
Get lost, dead!

Mom would stay close to home. Traveling is not much in her nature.
As she would say, “You’ve seen one lighthouse, you’ve seen them all.”
Dad was not like that. He wanted to see this, visit museums, know the world.
Then he got old.
He was always five years older than she, but at a certain point he aged,
got weak, forgetful, and ready to die.
“You can help me,” he said more than once. “You could do it for me.”
I didn’t even ask what he wanted me to do.
“I’m not gonna help you kill yourself, Dad.”
He didn’t push the point.

As an only child, I had my own room
with a loft.
I had a lot of space to myself.
When I was sent to my room,
it was never much of a punishment.

I live at my house in the Bronx,
but my house is separate from Antiseptic Ninety Fifth Street.
My house is not the home of which I speak.
My house is where I sleep.
I have been speaking about my home.

When my father, who moved out in the seventies, found he had a heart condition,
we as a family stopped preparing red meat for meals.
We Bergers may live apart, but we also live together.
None of us stopped eating it entirely, but it stopped being a meal to eat at home.
While growing up, though, my Mother would prepare steak in butter, and it was delicious.
I do not believe I have had this savory meat in a decade. Still I treasure it.

Every week or two, Mom and I would order cheap Chinese from the takeout place in the corner, just get forty dollars worth of food for two that would see us through half a week.
A lot of fried stuff there.
The first meal would often go on far too long,
well into sickness.

Sometimes, we would hear a sharp crack! out the window, and I couldn’t tell if it was a car backfiring or a gunshot.
Only in the last year or two have I heard that cars haven’t really backfired since the seventies.

Home is Antiseptic Ninety Fifth Street where Mother constantly asks,
“Can you tell that the floor was cleaned?”
I cannot, but upon review, yes, it does look like no crumbs are there.
My mess has been removed again.
Thank you, Mom.
The danger of bugs has again been lifted.
We are free!

Mother, who is Elva, once Chernow, now Berger, lives alone in this place, as I have moved on.
Before, there was a husband, but he moved on to a place to sleep late on weekends
and then every day. He then moved back to the building and died with a different name.
He was Howard and then Yehuda and now he is gone.
Elva lives on.
Elva lives alone.
Elva sees me often, as I visit her many times a week.
Antiseptic Ninety Fifth Street, though not my residence for decades, remains my home.