jonberger

A furious tide ahead, 
you sit beside the beach
a book on your knees
sand blowing onto the pages,
distracting you from the thing 
you know you must do:
conquer the waves.
Fight the sea.

The salty water knows what it has done,
challenging you.
Threatened your family.
You cannot abide by that.
You must protect your parents
your cousins
and the others
– much as you may hate them right now. 

This constant challenge must be accepted
and overtaken. 
Finally, when the barrage becomes too much,
you close the book and say “I must go.
The waves call. I must see to them.”
“Fine,” The woman at your side says, 
“Be careful. And take Simon.”
You blanch. 
“Must I? He never takes it seriously!”
Simon looks at the two of you, bored
but the woman will brook no disobedience. 
“Go with your father, Simon. 
Don’t let him get into too much trouble.”

You two go to the waves grumbling,
ready at last
to accept the great challenge. 

There are many artists
in my musical community
that are much respected
by the rank and file.
I do not always agree with the rank and file.
I’ve been a music critic but,
lacking actual musical comprehension,
it may be that my appreciation is limited.

Of course, like anyone,
I know what I like
and can describe it well enough,
which is what I did as a critic.
I tried to only write about things I liked,
so as not to knock artists.
Why waste column inches to insult someone
– unless you had something really entertaining to say?

But there were loads of uninteresting artists
that the cognoscenti were into:
just boring, overwrought,
simplistic or derivative folk.
People I just didn’t get.
Some times, I changed my mind later
More often, I stuck to my guns,
even as some acts began to score accolades
from the outside world
and got write-ups from Rolling Stone
and The New York Times.

So my opinion isn’t always consistent
with the general public’s,
but that might be why I’m on the fringes of society
living outside of mainstream culture.

Perhaps that’s why I am the way I am
and why some of these artists
are the “pop geniuses”
they are today.

When you go
there is a painting I would like.
It is the one in the hallway
by the bathroom
with the blue figure and the yellow hat.
If no one else has claimed it,
I would like that.

I have no need of the jewelry
or any coins.
I don’t know how to trade them in, anyway.
That painting is one that I’ve always thought of
when I’ve come to visit.

There is also,
if it’s OK,
the ranch that takes up three states
and the plane.
If no one else has claimed them.

I love you, Gram.

It’s just been sitting there for generations
doing no good to anyone
since my tastes have turned to
harder stuff.
Like everything else,
I’m loathe to just toss it as trash
so I want to gift this collection to someone
perhaps my pubescent nephew
but who knows if old magazines
would tickle his fancy?

Would women
now as old as his grandmother
do a thing for the boy?
Would he require live-action?
What are the kids consuming these days?
Are women even his thing?
How do I even broach this conversation?

Maybe I should just drop
these in the woods
like they did in the old days.

They speak of it,
the work that was done.
They whisper in legends
of the fanzine of yesteryear
and they say “it will never be surpassed!”

Their numbers are few,
but they are dedicated.
The tens speak of the glory days
of the zine they contributed to
stapled, copied, and handed to one another.

Those were good days.

The copies yellow
when taken out of their protective cases
which is often.

I thought I saw your double:
same eyes
same hair
same teeth,
same far-off stare…
It was you to a faded t-shirt.

The only thing I couldn’t verify
was the voice
because the other you
knew how to keep his mouth shut.

In this way,
I noted a marked improvement.

I just had to fill in one of those weird surveys
where they ask the three people you’d want to have dinner with,
living or dead. 

This time, I said
I’d like to eat with my dead Dad
and his late parents,
whom I never got to really know. 
They died too early in my years. 

I said I missed my pops
and he probably missed his parents
so it might be a nice get-together. 

Am I getting into heaven yet?

Since I don’t believe,
can I maybe get a ticket to Albuquerque, instead?

A poor workman blames his tools
but really, my phone is so fucking out of date,
you wouldn’t believe it. 

I don’t need much 
to compose excellent poems,
but this piece of shit 
will not provide me ideas
or write the first 
five to eight lines for me.
Do you get it?

And it won’t surf the web, 
skimming other poetry
to find the best ideas to steal,
giving me abstracts from which to compose 
my own little mini-opi. 
That’s the plural of opus, isn’t it?
My phone should tell me this shit!

Really, it’s unacceptable. 
This device should be doing more for me. 
Ask not what this piece of crap is,
it ain’t a fucking thing.

If you realize that you live your life
as if there is someone watching you
some being in the corner
through a screen
judging you, even-tempered,
for what you do and think
– but not punishing you –
simply expressing opinions
about your choices
and leaving you be…

If you are living in reaction
to this viewer’s assessment
despite the lack of wrath
or power at their disposal,
what does that make of you?

Are you still faithful?

Are you still God-fearing?

Do you still subscribe
to some religion
called the Screeners?

Asking for a friend.

When last I wrote about you
I had something cruel to say
then dressed it up
with some additional thoughts
that cushioned the blow
softened the crash
lightened the impact.

Upon review,
I found that,
like the last two metaphors, 
the dressed-up portion of my last writing
was extraneous
and all I really wanted to say to you
was cruel.

Perhaps I should have said nothing
but I really did have something 
still to say.