jonberger

Do you remember that time when I spent an hour or so
working on a poem
and it turned out to be Neil Diamond’s "America"?
You probably don’t, because I didn’t show it to anybody.
It was kind of embarrassing.
Why didn’t I notice it sooner?

How long did I go down that rabbit hole
before realizing it belonged to some other rabbit entirely?
I’m not one to bite on anybody else’s carrots!

Oh, hell! I’m a carrot-nibbler from way back!
There’s a piece I wrote called "Carrots I Have Nibbled,"
but I don’t think I showed that to anyone, either
so you can forget about it, too.

Anyone got any gold I could steal?

And in the far-off future that you never imagined
when your great great great grandniece
seizes the dusty box of your unreleased treasures
and opens them to find your journals, your notebooks
your diaries…
she will look at them with wonder.

Your words and images will drool over every page
and she will be amazed at what she sees
imagining what went on through your toe-head
back in the day when you created such amazing things!

She will look back on the olden fantastic days
when paper and pen and ink were used
and characters and she will wish she understood them
or there was anybody else left
who could read yesteryear’s text
and she will send them to the museum
where they will put these bound items
into deep storage with all the others.

Perhaps they will find a way to decode these materials again
some time in the future.

There are few overnight cars in my neighborhood.
My block is somewhat industrial;
only my building
and the one next door have residential apartments
and only a couple at that
so few humans sleep on the block.

Occasionally
a truck will rest outside
its motor hum through the night
joining our regular few vehicles’ silent snores.

The bar on the corner brings transient irregulars
but they rarely stay the night.
They visit
and are gone by daybreak,
unchaste lovers.
I cannot say what the block makes of them
if the building feels cheated
by their departure.
I, for one,
am glad to see the parking
again freed up.

They did a testimonial show for me once.
A bunch of friends came up
and read some poems of mine.
Most had gone to my website
and picked recent poems
and recited them.

Nobody had done research
and dug deep into my catalog
– which was fifteen years thick
at the time of the event
to find some classic works.

Why would they, I guess
when there was so much recent material
to select from?
I don’t believe anybody repeated anything.
A half hour or more was filled with people
covering the words of Jonathan Berger.
I was hearing myself from other people’s lips.
What more could I ask for?
What am I whining about now?

I guess I just wanted something deeper.
Something more personal.
Something greater.

However unhealthy it may be
I can always desperately seek something more.

I resented Mark not reaching out to me
back when he was going through so much shit.
He should have been a better friend
when he was so troubled, I thought.

I didn’t quite take into account
how much turmoil he was going through
when his mother was failing
and he was staying just a couple of feet ahead
of institutionalization himself.

I was thinking “Why isn’t he calling me back?
Why can’t he be bothered?”

There was a lot I didn’t understand back then.
Still the case,
but I think I understand
that I don’t understand now.

I’m not sure Mark knows
how unforgiving I was at this time
he was at his lowest
so I hope word doesn’t get back to him somehow
and everyone can keep their yaps shut.

Forgotten adventures.
Tales within tales.
A young boy escaped the view of his parents
and found himself free from the governess
and in a room of beautiful books.

He saw one specially bound one
that he had to have.

It was red and black
and in English – his native tongue –
and he thought he could read it
on the days in his voyage to Liverpool.

He hid it in his waistcoat
and went back to his governess’ care
and read it at all points he could find himself alone.
There were not many.

Many of the words were beyond his understanding
and beyond his ken
for it seemed to be a political text.
He wondered if he should return the book
and every day thought perhaps he should go back to the room
but could only find time to read
not to escape.

It didn’t matter, of course.
The book
as were most of the passengers
proved lost, after all.
The little boy and his family’s name was lost as well
so we’ll never be sure if he made it out
from the sinking of the Lusitania.

If you put it into perspective
your life is pretty great:
you’re not a quadriplegic mute
who can’t express your needs to anyone
and helpless to get your point across.

Of course
if you put it into comparison
your life is pretty crappy:
trillions have been taken from an equitable pot
so that you are left with relatively little
all so the Point Oh Oh Oh One Per can get their mongoose pâté

faxed to them on platinum clouds
or whatever is the latest fad.

So wherever you are on the spectrum
it could be somewhere else.

Something to think about, right?

We got there twenty minutes late
but they still let us into the play
proving that rules and order are irrelevant
and justice means nothing
in this world.

They should have told us it was too late
and we missed our chance
and sent us on our way
but what are you gonna do?

The rest of the show was good.
Wish I understood it
after all that we missed.

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.