jonberger

When the band broke up,
Roger and Basil and Phlegm all opted to start a new project
under Roger’s direction.
No longer just the bassist,
now he was the songwriter.
Now he was the star.

He asked a singer, Jenn,
that looked nothing like Carlotta to join him on stage
and do co-lead vocals with him.
Jenn also sang lead on lots of songs that he wrote for her.
Perhaps she was really the star.
They did all right.

Meanwhile, Carlotta was fuming.
She felt this had been the plan all along:
to disband so they could restart without her.
She had her own gigs
with her own fans
but she felt like there had been a plot against her
to take her star
away from her.

Maybe it wasn’t about stars.
Maybe it was about people being able to work together comfortably.
It didn’t matter.
Roger, Basil, Phlegm and Jenn
didn’t last much longer
than Phlegm, Basil, Carlotta and Rog.

Nothing lasts long in this town.
All fires die
eventually.

Dean is done with drink.
Problems with his gut.
Saves some pain,
probably saving his life.
Now he sees stuff a little more clearly.

The women he used to end up with
at Three AM,
he understand the phenomenon somewhat better now.
The friends he lost for no reason,
he’s found the reason.
And these days, he’s got an astonishing amount of pocket change
he never had before.

His clothes fit better.
He doesn’t get scratched up anymore
– nor do his shoes.
People seem to like him more.
He seems to like people more.
What is this twisted alchemy?

Maybe it doesn’t matter.
He’s just glad his gut doesn’t hurt.

The last road branches; you’re unsure which way to take.
You know where Robert Frost would go. Is it the choice you should make?
Will you go down the popular path, the trail where everybody goes
or opt to be adventurous and take a trip that no one knows

just what will happen, who or where you will find a place to care
about enough to take a stand and stay and put down roots ensnared?
The decision is all yours. You know this fact, of course, but you
still wish you had somebody who was at your side with what to do.

You could flip a coin, but chance appears too reckless to decide
and so you think of miney mo and laugh, embarrassed, wish to hide,
hoping there’s a place that you could simply will yourself to reach.
Were it that easy, you’d have done it, one once said, in some former form of speech.

Wishes will not fix this thing, you realize, and so come to resolve:
You will make the Fates tell you, by forcing winds to be involved.
Throw a pointer in the air. See which way it settles with help of wayward breeze.
The way it point’s the way you go. That’s the answer to the riddle, easy as you please!

The solution is at hand! You throw the pointer up to see what’s next. You frown.
Unpredictably, the pointer settles in the ground, deep in the dirt. It’s pointed down.
To follow orders to a T, you’d be going to the netherworld; straight to Hell.
You’re tired of this crap. Shrugging shoulders, saying, “Surely. Might as well!”

But you can’t. It’s enough for you to realize that “This isn’t right,”
which makes you see “It must be left!” so you know where to go before it’s night!
So off you fly on this last road before the evening’s fallen.
You’re glad you’ve come to a conclusion. More adventures now are calling!

My eyes
have seen a little trouble today
and I do not believe
they will witness much more.

They’re down for the count
for now
but
if you would speak to me
for a little while
I believe
I would be able to go on
with understanding what happened today.

So have a seat,
have a drink,
and fill me in on some of the details.
Just what happened
after the eclipse?

I no longer remember the challenge.
It was probably important
and I should investigate the recesses of my memory
to uncover what it was about
but my father paid me fifty dollars
back when fifty dollars was some amount of money
and I had to decide how to use the money.

I could have saved it,
but I was thirteen years old
and postponing gratification
was not a concept I understood.
If the cash was available,
it was there to be spent.

While in the competition for that money
(what was I doing for it?
Damnit, Dad, what did you make me do?),
I had seen a digital clock radio on display at Grand Central.
It had alarms and could play cassettes.
It was awesome!

Guess how much it cost.

That was the main contender.
There were a lot of comic books I could buy
for that kind of cash,
but the clock radio seemed to be a more mature purchase.
It could help me with school
and would last long after.

I finally decided on the radio
and brought the boxed product home.

It still plays cassettes today,
I think.
I haven’t tried in about twenty years.
It’s still bopping around the house somewhere.

I can’t get rid of it;
I put fifty bucks into that thing.

Religion and philosophical practice exists
for an understanding of the universe
and our place within it.
There are other ways to employ such practices, though.

Selecting carefully from Zen principles,
you can exploit them
to harass, embarrass
and destroy potential family and neighbors.
Here are some strategies:

Knowing that “Everything constantly changes,”
become an agent of chaos,
wreaking havoc wherever you go.
Mutilate furniture and leave food out to rot
in hidden places through your loved ones’ homes.
Lie in the most subtle ways.

Understanding that “Things we value are empty”
and “Attachment is the source of suffering,” steal.
Steal everything that isn’t nailed down
and then get the clawhammer.
Embezzle. Blackmail. Take.
And lest we not forget: steal – again!

Seeing that one should “Accept that painful things may happen,”
don’t get rid of the clawhammer just yet.
Apply whatever other tools may be necessary
to help instill the principle to the greatest number
of family and friends as you can
before being sent away. Claim you heard voices.
It usually helps.

Realizing that “Compassion is needed for peace of mind,”
try to score comp tickets for whatever events you can.
Offer folks mind-altering substances so you shatter their brains
into itsy-bitsy pieces
that they’ll never be able to put together again.

“Build a community and show respect to it.”
I think through the exercises above,
you’ve been doing an excellent job of community-building.
Give yourself a pat on the back,
and drink a tall glass of lemonade, Zenster!

There are Beatles obvious. Yes, there are Beatles known.
Beatles whose fire’s gone out, and whose birds have flown.
And Beatles who were subtler fare, hidden along the way
while other Beatles advertised, like Deej Murray the K.

Of course, you know the ghosts of John and George, the Beatles Two
and don’t forget their living complement, those you know who.
But let us go into the others once of Beatle blood,
like Peter Best and Jimmie Nicol, Ringo’s drumming buds.

Let us remember an artist who was once Beatle true
who left to stay in Hamburg: none other than our Stu.
He wasn’t great at bass guitar; he gave what he could give.
He wasn’t great at permanence; he died rather than live.

If anyone’s a Beatle, it would be George Martin.
Any else who produced would find themselves smartin’.
Only that knight would have it all: the brains, the guile, the skills.
He did the Four of Fab such good! Not a bit of ill.

Manager Brian Epstein made them who they were.
And though he was never nominated to be Sir,
he certainly was considered as a Beatle fifth.
If not for him, the boys wouldn’t be famous, herewith.

Neil and Derek, Klaus and Mal, also nominees.
Each of them have places in our hearts, we all agree.
Each one of them a Beatle. Perhaps they all were Five.
If only any of them could now help the band revive!

There is a place
where the ghosts of our arguments reside
whispering through the halls
crawling up the walls
darting, making calls
stretching out, sprawled everywhere,
carelessly at home.

These ghosts have been here
far longer than we ever were.
They made a home
where we were unable to.
They found comfort all together
where we had to be apart.

The ghosts of our tortured conversations
haunt those rooms
I am sure
but will never verify
for I
will never go back.

I don’t believe public transportation has become more dangerous lately.
I believe reporting on public transportation has gotten more dangerous,
because obviously, if it bleeds, it leads,
and everybody loves a scary story.

My mother won’t take the train anymore
partially because the stairs are a bitch
but mostly because she’s afraid.
I can convince her, sometimes,
to ride the rails with me as her protector
(especially if there’s an elevator in sight)
but she’s mostly about the buses now
– which she also complains about sometimes.

I don’t doubt that subway stats might have gone up
in recent years.
Apparently, between twenty one and twenty two,
crime went up underground.
Imagine, as life returned to normal
after the pandemic,
more regular behaviors re-emerged.
Gomer Pyle would say “Sooprize, sooprize, sooprize!”

Of course the police would pick up on this
and seek to capitalize on the data.
Why wouldn’t they want a chance
to increase market share wherever they can?
Isn’t that their mandate?

I don’t have much of a dog in this fight
as I drive around most of the time,
but this talking head’s guess is that the trains
are same as they ever was.

Should you decide to exist, God
or Yahweh, Allah, Mrs. Deity, Anu, whatever,
I’m wondering if you could backdate fulfillment
for my wish of Spider-Man number one.

I don’t care about it so much now,
but it really would have meant a lot to me
back when I was a pre-tween.
It might have changed things for me
in the social order,
which could have had substantial effects
in my self-esteem.

I can only imagine how I’d have blossomed
with more courage under the hood.

So, assuming you come to carnate yourself,
the ineffable,
as commander of time and space,
I’d appreciate it
if you go back and take care of this for me.
Really doing me a solid here.
Thanks!

Yours,