jonberger

Last night, you said some things.
Last night, we talked of rings.
Last night, you were so sweet.
Last night, I said you’d meet my parents
at the first opportunity.
What is this current disunity that we are experiencing?

Last night, we seemed so simpatico.
We planned a vacation in Puerto Rico.
Two kids and a lifetime in Hartsdale;
our fill of picnics and yard sales.
Last night it seemed it was all planned out.
What is it you’re now trying to shout?

Are you trying to get away?
Is that what you’re trying to say?
Do you seek to tell me nay
but in a way that’s a bit more gray?
Cuz in that way, you’re doing OK!
You’ve been confusing me ALL DAY!
If you want to lead me astray,
then you have certainly got your way.

Last night, our love was storybook.
Last night, we had dreamy eyes. Take a look!
Last night, we were looking to the future.
Today, it seems you want to suture
all the things that we said
into some kind of threaded creation.

Last night, we were all sorts of perfect.
Now, it looks like you’d like to reject
the plans that we had arrived at.
Hit ’em with a bat and make ’em splat
into a mess and let it lie
on the ground there until it dies.

Last night…

With my headphones I play songs of yesterday
going all around the way doing my work
thinking all about my love and the ways I’m dreaming of
being with her and of shoving all the smirks
off the fuckers and the clowns while I listen to the sounds
of the Beatles playing round and round and round
and round and round and round as my jerking down the stairs
gets me to the bottom floor where I pour myself through the door
into more work, continuing on with the theme of the evening:

Love must be hidden.
She must not know.
If you find her light,
do not let it show.

Continuing on, I enter buildings new, traversing smoothly through
a constantly attainable slew of access points, accruing entries everywhere.
It is here, there, everywhere that I go, always hearing what I need
to know that the boys are with me, warning of what I must do to stay true
to myself going forward, to be free. I see it. I taste it as the boys tell me why
to cry, to lie, to apply the hiding principles at just the right times. I go to work.

Love must be hidden.
She must never know.
If you catch her in her beauty,
just let it go.

The sun is setting in this darker time of year and I have fears
that inhere clearly, constantly.
I should be going. I must be going. I get gone, but still my
Liverpudlians play. They say “You’re going to lose that girl.”
They talk about being “sad and lonely,” about being “half a man.”
I know the song. I know the songs well. I sing it to myself,
without the disc spinning for me. I know it by heart.

Love must be hidden.
She must not be told.
If you feel the words of love,
keep them sealed, like gold.

Did you know that the word gullible
is spelled with only one L in the dictionary?
It isn’t true. I had to check.

In high school,
just a little bit before
the twenty anniversary of Sgt. Pepper’s,
Corin told me
that Lennon and McCartney
originally wrote the song
“Ticket to Rye,” but wanted to make it
more universal, so they changed it to
“Ticket to Ride.”

“Really?”
I had no reason to question the story.
I was not the student of the Beatles
I would later become
and there was no Wikipedia
nor smartphones to immediately challenge
every word every other human said
at the end of a sentence.

So I swallowed the story
until Mitchell later laughed at me
when I regurgitated the tale.

I felt foolish.

Why would Corin fuck with me like that?
I’d done nothing to him
and I had no motivation to doubt his words.
He hadn’t presented anything outlandish
in his report. Why wouldn’t I believe it?

It turns out there is a Rye
in England,
so the story could make a certain amount of sense
were it true.

It’s not, though.

I just checked again.
I got taken for a ride.

So you’ve found out the truth. The secret is out.
Despite all my tries to keep it from you, you know what I’m about.
I’d meant to be hidden, to keep it inside.
But you had to dig, had to pry, and you’ve left me with nothing to hide.

Yes, I admit the dark dirty truth, you’ve made me do so.
You are the only one that I can think about, but of course, you knew so…
you know that I care about – which is something I’d sworn to never do
but it’s time that you admit to me that you love me, too.

You love me, too. It’s true for me, as well as you. My truth reflects on you, it’s true.
You love me, too.

We’re awful together. But perfect as well.
This heaven we’ve reached is a California Hotel.
We can’t go the distance; it’s unreasonable to try,
but you’ve never been one to give up on the impossible and you know? Neither have I!

So we’ll fight on through one love, and also one hate
as we continue this macabre decision to date.
Yes, I’ll go the distance, if you’re with me, dear.
For only a life without your persistent persnickety pique is one that I fear.

You love me true. I know that you do. I love you, too. I’ll be there for you.
We are both screwed.

Mister Smarty-Shoes,
always thinking that you can never lose.
Assuming you’re beyond paying your dues.
Presuming you can do whatever you choose.
You got the dedications after emancipation;
whatever the situation: greatness is your predication.

Mister Smarty-Shoes,
constantly singing those can’t-lose blues
in all those colorful velvet hues
committing acts that no one can excuse.
You’re the one you think that everyone’ll forgive
unaware that everything in life is terminative.

Mister Shoes-So-Smart,
acting like everything you do is art.
As if you had something worthwhile to impart
Like there’s a golden smell in your every fart
or a great end for anything you’d deign to start.
I hate to upset your applecart, sweetheart,
but you’d barely break the charts.

Oh, Mister Smarty-Shoes,
always cruising for a new way to schmooze.
I think it’s time you open up to some alternate views.
Perhaps discover folks beyond your current Who’s Whose.
It may be difficult for you to uncover
but think of all the things that you’ll discover
if you accept these cues and choose to not refuse
and become really loose
and get bruised.

You walk the jungle floor.
The snakes snap
recklessly reminding of an earlier time
when creatures weren’t out to attack
and life didn’t feel like a constant threat.

You think fondly of those earlier days
when you had faith in a system.
When there was a society
that ran smoothly.

Now the jungle out there
is what runs
and you in it
along with everyone else
because we all decided
that faith in our differences
was more important
than our commonalities.

Look at your victory, then,
along with the rest of us.

The ink spilled
and with it, my legacy.

The glass crashed
and so did my hopes.

The day ended
just like my our romance.

The band snapped
as did the boss at the end of the shift.

Our mission collapsed,
a sand castle built too high
on a beach of similes, metaphors
and whatnot.

Soon, I shall see results.
My waiting will be over.
The clock will turn over
and I will have satisfaction.

Soon, I shall see the band.
They may be bad,
but they’ll be on,
and I’ll have a time
and then I can go home.

At this point, that’s all I need.

Any minute now.

Please, any minute now…

I used to carry a composition notebook
in which to write
and I was often out at small clubs
late at night
listening to music
while I would write my little notes
in my horrible little scribble.

On more than one occasion,
I’d leave my notebook alone, unattended.
This was never wise.
It could have been stolen
and ransomed
back to me
for many’s times its value.
Of course, to look at my handwriting,
anyone would assume I was an intellectually challenged fifth grader.
Not much revenue available from that kid.
So usually, my book remained unmolested
but occasionally, I found a page
torn out of the book
so someone could have desired scrap paper for their own wanton purposes.

This never failed to piss me off.
There’s the obvious: it’s my fucking property.
Don’t vandalize it.
Beyond that, though,
There’s the sanctity of my writing apparatus
I want it to be purely my creativity
with no other additions.
Worst of all, ripping the pages
severs the spine of the notebook.

The page you rip at the back
cuts out a page in the front.
The structural integrity of my book is fucked with.
Don’t fuck with my book, stranger!

If I see the act in process
(I never do),
I slap the hand that rips,
thus protecting my property,
making me a hero.

Many a notebook
had been ruined
by my failure.

Now I use electronics
and I need never fail
in that way
ever again.
Have other things been lost?
Perhaps
but security has been maintained.

We have that, at least.

When I’m at my most loving,
which is incredibly rare,
I will examine why I am so vitriolic in my judgement and impatience
with Henry Spartan and try to give myself a chance to justify
my unfair rude behavior
toward another human being who’s just trying to get by.

The fact that he’s got autistic characteristics
shouldn’t cause me so much frustration and anger,
I know.
I ought to be able to handle his idiosyncrasies much better than I do.
Still, I suspect that I fear my reflection
in his actions.
When he doesn’t know how to navigate a conversation
I worry that’s me in every other conversation.
When he blithely asks for favors
in such an unsubtle way
I worry that I do the same.
I am afraid that the barrier between us
may be only one that I imagine
which is why I keep him at arm’s length.

I am unnecessarily cruel
with the guy,
which I am always aware of
but I’m only willing to address
when I’m at my best
and thinking that I’m not so bad,
after all.

Then
I consider I can do something about what I have done
and what I might do again.
I can’t, but
I think I can.