jonberger

When I was writing music reviewsI preferred not to let people know
I was writing about them
so they could come up upon the content
out in the world, like a surprise,
like we weren’t all part of an insular
tiny community of artists who all knew each other.

I usually wrote positive reviews
because what was the point of making the effort
to produce the content just to criticize?
There’s so much art out there:
why waste the inches to promote
just to hurt somebody
– unless there was a serious risk
someone would invest in the art.
Like what if Lou Reed has just released
a steam pile and the world needed to be warned?
Then it makes sense to send out a public release
to get the word out before anyone made a mistake!

Normally though, I wanted people
to get the mild shock of seeing themselves in print
(or more likely) in digital view.

I wrote a fan letter/career review
a few years back
after I had stopped doing regular writing of this sort.
It was well after I had been doing research on my subjects,
even one I had known so well as Ms. Scott.
Except I didn’t know Ms. Scott so well
since I made so many mistakes in my article
mistakes she felt obliged to call me on
after it was published.

I felt so sure of the facts beforehand
but these were things that were easily verifiable
that I had failed to do.
If I had reached out to her to ask
all would have been so much easier.
Had I written a responsible article
done reasonable reportage
everything would have gone off well.

Even after the fact
I should have reported the errors to the publication.
I don’t know why I didn’t.
I don’t know if it even occurred to me.
Ms. Scott deserved better – especially from a fan.

I can’t understand how I did such a pisspoor job at first
and why I didn’t understand how to make restitution afterwards
– she gave me the means. .
As one who explores his own navel so frequently
there is so little I get
about myself.
Maybe it’s time
to crawl up my own asshole for a while

and see what I can find.

It seems to me as if your hunting never stops
your eyes are always darting, your armor never drops.
I get the sense from you that you’ve only had enough
of the game of romance after several proper thrusts.

Once upon that crime, you’re fine, you’ve dined on what you wished
so you can go jump in a lake for your own sake and fish
for newer sorts of promises, which you will never keep
and the latest of your quarry upon whom you will reap.

After all this time, is sex purposeless?
With the lights low, love gets dangerous.
Your deceit in the sheets leaves you traitorous
When the lights go low, love gets dangerous.

Your games will never end, will they? I don’t believe they will.
To you, I’ll always seem like prey. I wonder if you’ve had your fill.
Until we find the editor that simply flips your scripts,
you offer your expendable kiss from oppositional lips.

You just lie for love with snow jobs, flowing fibs to act the ho.
You know that fear of the foe makes you come and go so
you’ll never stop running away from these games you’ve been playing.
I just wish you were better, is all that I’m saying.

For you, and the hunt, love seems pointless.
When the lights go low, love is dangerous.
Your deceit in the sheets leaves you traitorous
With the lights low, love is dangerous.

Today’s quest for the Keys of Ennui
to forestall the fall of world into eternal disrepair
has been postponed
until a more convenient time
when the weather proves more agreeable.

Until that time, please enjoy your home entertainment systems
and cupcakes.

We shair reconvene at the earliest opportunity

for our Walkathon in Manhattan
to uncover said Keys of Ennui
through which we hope to delay the undeniable.

Thank you for your attention
in this matter.

Look for all our future notifications!

There is no bell at my door
so I am not prepared to receive the folk
who come storming at my gate.

I cannot blast them away
nor welcome them in.
I can only let the defenses take care of them
and perhaps presume
the invasive have another way to reach out to me.

They could shout up to my window
or use my phone
or write to me by email or text
or even post
though I receive mail
about as often as a knock at the door.

Really, no one comes to approach me
at home.
I do not see how that will alter
without a doorbell
and I do not see that changing
any time in the short term.

If I tell you what to do
you probably won’t do it
BUT
if I intimate what to do
suggest that you probably wouldn’t want to do it
haven’t got the time or the predilection or the capacity
state that it’s not important
that whatever you do is perfectly all right
so long as you’re happy,
then you still won’t do it,
but I’ll have done my due diligence.

That’s all a smart one can really try to do,
right?

I’m asking you now:
is there anything else I can do?

Drunk guy with toy bottle says
“God bless you!”
to the lady he failed to pick up on the Number 3 Uptown.
“Imma leave you alone,” he says,
Then asks how old she is.
“Goddamn! You forty three? You don’t look twenty seven!
“How old you think I look?”

He’s worn. Looks about fifty.
“Forty?” He shouts “God bless you! I’m sixty! I swear!”
I can believe it.
We enter a louder area as the train nears its station and the conversation is lost. She exits.
He’s left, bereft of his company.
“Goddamn,” he says, “sixty…”
He finishes his drink, tossing it down.

The testing is complete.
At last, the schemes have been completed.
The plans have been settled.
The teams have been assigned.
The spoils have been divided
between the anticipated victors.

All the pieces are now in place.
Victory is all but assured.
The game is ready to be played.
Let us commence!

Her motivation was pure, but if one is imaginative enough,
you can always find ill intent in even the most kind-hearted of impulses.
Perhaps she only looked him up because of his many connections
in the mobile phone / health-care synergy network.
Possibly she had heard about his sister
being a judge at the All-State Rhubarb Pie Bake-Off next month.

Perchance she suspected that he had always harbored an interest in her
and she wanted to connect with him to ensure that he knew
that it was best that he STAY AWAY at all costs.

Any of this was possible.
All of this was conceivable.

She was looking for any reason to doubt her own impulses
and not just pick up the phone
to reach out to her old friend.

The adults around the teevee
are watching images of adorable doggies
in supine states.
“Awww”s abound.
The soundtrack is melancholy.

The children are out back
on the indoor porch
playing with the stuffed pets
trying to get them to behave.

Great Aunt Sally is using the giant soup bone for…
soup, I guess.
There is no one else in the house
to gnaw on the giant thing.

All the four-legged friends
have left the home.
The pets have abandoned this place.

Everyone to love has all gone away.

There is no explanation for this state of affairs.
Some disappeared of their own accord.
Some were sent away with the help of a speeding car
or a misplaced raccoon
or unprotected poison.
Some went to farms up north.
But now they’re all gone
and no one has replaced them.

Where is the spirit
for the pets of this house?
How will that energy be returned?

My mother cannot bear the way I drive.
I cannot bear my mother’s reactions to my driving
like when I’m writing poetry about my driving
while behind the wheel.

She hisses and grips herself tightly
as protection from all the damage
I have yet to cause her.
Not once have I gotten into an accident with my mother
yet she seems to scream internally
and she often does cry externally
when I race through the streets
keeping pace with the other cars
failing to cause a single scar on her face.

I have generated for her many a wrinkle
many a worry line
many a tear.
Her fears about my potential tickets
are making her sicker and sicker.
A quicker way to kill my mother
would be to simply crash the vehicle
but I am resistant to such a plan.

I do wish she wouldn’t tense up so often
doubt the brakes with such rapidity.
I want her to trust me
and my driving
but then
I know the number of accidents I’ve had
without her in the car
and she has good reason to be concerned.