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but really, my phone is so fucking out of date,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.
We raced the empty industrial streets
the quiet, closed, cloistered streets
of an abandoned neighborhood.
They moved faster than my walking pace
so I biked with them
and they had to keep pace with my speed.
This way, I could poop them out
and they had a great time.
I just had to be a little faster than them
to maintain their interest
a carrot on a stick for these excitable fellas
and they’d follow me across this ridiculous
secluded landscape.
Sometimes, one might take interest in a dirty puddle
but a quick call of “Heidegger!” or “Pizza!”
would be enough to get them on the move again.
We were not entirely alone
in this weekend wonderland.
Some trucks had deliveries
and I did not notice one had come between me and my charges
but I did hear the squeal when Pizza lay beside the road
and the truck sped past.
Pizza quickly got up.
I couldn’t tell if she had actually been hit
or just scared.
Since she seemed to shrug it off,
I bet on scared, but watched her carefully
as we slowed our roll for the rest of our travels that day.
Nothing really seemed to hamper
the opportunities of the weekends in the wild, though.
They seemed up for it,
but what did they know?
I have longed to touch you for so long
but you sneer that I’d break you
were I to try;
my lumbering advance would snap you
before I could near any amorous intent.
Clearly, you don’t know how quickly
I can arrive at amorous intent
but I wouldn’t want to break you.
That’s the furthest from my mind.
I want to cherish you
and the dread
the disgust
the disparagement you hold for me
is enough to keep me away
indefinitely.
I wouldn’t want to harm you.
If helping you is leaving you be
then that is absolutely what I’ll do.
Farewell
to you.
jonberger 