jonberger

I’ve been trying to model
other people’s behavior
in positivity.
It’s not going too badly
– but then I’d have to say that,
wouldn’t I?

Someone I know has been working on this happiness kick
and it sounds like it’s been going well for him
and monkey see,
monkey do, right?
So now I’m incredibly happy.
Well, somewhat happy.
It seems to be working, is what I’m saying.

Expressing that things are going well,
even in challenging times
produces some results.

I hate the process of psyching yourself up.
The suggestibility of it
is not to my liking.
But the results are pretty cool.
If it makes life more pleasant,
it’s probably worth doing,
even if it proves me a sucker
in the offing.

So life is good.
Thank you for asking.

The way the two of them argued yesterday
was uncomfortable for everyone to witness.
We were all there around them
circling the fire
of their polite antipathy.

Pot shot
after bon mot was hurled at each other
and we got to hear each and every one.
I didn’t understand
everything that was said
but I suspected that the grim smiles
were not necessarily sincere.

The party ended kind of early
with no winner between the two.
They just continued
trading snarky blows
into the evening
until we all faded away.

I don’t know what precipitated their little battle
and no one seemed to find a way
to get them to stop.

There was no peace in the valley last night.
Maybe when we get together next time
they’ll have forgotten
what they were arguing about
but I’m not too hopeful.

He said he had written his last anthem
but refused to play it
for fear that once it was played,
his world would shatter
and all would be as crust
on old moldy bread
that had somehow
inexplicably
shattered.

So he kept the anthem
in his back pocket:
protected, silent,
away from all audiences
so that none might know its contents
and he would be safe from the effects
of its play.

And then
he saw what he figured
was the final fate
and he finally decided
it was time to play out
all he had to play.

The anthem was out, then,
and, surprise!
Nothing was shattered!
Nothing went moldy.
Nothing was crusty.
People applauded.
Everything was all right.

There’s a lesson to be found,
but he couldn’t hear it;
there was too much clapping
for any other sounds to get through.

Allow me to posit the following:
For every Elvis Costello
there are, out there,
a thousand Elton Motellos,
(writing their songs from a backing track
they bought from a record label)
and for every Elvis Costello
there is one millionth of a fan
who will get this reference.

That’s just the way I like it.

There is no one I know
within 60 Blocks of my home.
With my car,
with trains,
with civilization firmly in place,
that means little.
It means next to nothing.

If the power goes out
that seems like a lot to traverse.

There’s a river to cross.
There’s neighborhoods to engage with.
If I wanted to transport anything
other than myself
I’d have to bring a wagon
or a cooler
or a crate
or something.

These are things I have not been prepared to think of
before.
These are things I am afraid to think of
now.

How friendly are these 60 blocks
to get to meet a friendly face?
Maybe it’s time
to meet some friendly faces
closer to home.


My mother
who occupies much of my attention
is getting older.

This may be a shock to no one.
She may not be alone in the phenomenon of
“getting older”
that I referred to
but it is of a certain importance to me.

I have only the one parent left
and I think no one would be surprised
that she was always the more important one.

I never was Daddy’s Little Boy.

I try to spend the time I can with my mother
while she has her faculties intact.
She remembers most things
and her logic is basically where it should be.
She asks me for more help than she used to,
but I think it’s because she’s lazy
not because she’s incompetent.
When she reads this, she’ll let me know
– probably with a swing to the chops.

I’m happy to help my Mom,
to spend time with her
and I try not to dwell
on the overriding reason
why spending time with her now
is important:
scarcity.

Whether 20 days or 20 years
there’s a ticking clock
that I strive to ignore
and yet appreciate all at once.

She’s mentioned her bad back lately.
I hope it’s not anything major.

Death versus argyle:
who would win?

Kumquats versus Schenectady:
who would win?

The Who versus “With a Little Help From My Friends”:
who would win?
What if it was the Joe Cocker version?

Joe Cocker versus the Cocteau Twins:
who would win?

ABBA versus Dear Abby:
who would win?

The French Foreign Legion versus Animaniacs:
who would win?

Ice cream sundaes versus Sunday:
who would win?

Winning versus Juan, my friend in Eighth Grade:
who would win?
(All right: obviously winning always wins,
but who comes in in second place?
{Yeah, that’s a trick question, too…})

Batman versus Owlman:
who would win?
Which version?

If I was given a million dollars
to choose between the art of dance
and the art of words,
I think I would take the million dollars
and keep both art forms,
because you can’t tell me what to do.

“But those aren’t the rules of the game!”
You may say,
and rightly so.
But I defy the rules.
I defy your structure
because I don’t believe in it.
You cannot keep art from me
– or if you can,
I don’t see how.

I simply don’t accept your parameters
– but I will totally accept your money.
I’m easy like that.
I’ll even use the cash to fund
a Dance and Poetry Party
and you’re invited!

We cool?

There is a canine who never has been free.
This little doggie is just yearning now to pee.
And in your life there simply has to be
someone who will walk the doggie.

You know full well the someone needn’t be you
and you are aware that you hate the smell of poo
but this is an act somebody has to do.
Someone will have to walk the doggie.

The doggie must be walked; it’s a truth as old as time.
Her biological urges are required; they are prime
and must be satisfied. If it’s not done, it’s a crime.
She needs to stretch her legs, either downhill or through climb
-ing.

And so you take her out with a leash and with a bag
and then you find it’s raining and your spirits seem to sag
and you find your pet resistant; to move her you need to drag
– but still, somehow, you need to walk the doggie.

So even though she’s mini, all your force you need to pull
this teeny tiny terror, whose intransigence is full
-y on display today but your eyes are full of wool
and you insist that you will succeed in walking the doggie.

You will have walked your damn dog even if you die in trying.
The attempt is everything, in the pushing, in the prying.
There is pride in the effort; valiance in the vying.
You will walk that damn dog, or you will end up dying.
Yep, it turns out that you will just end up dying.
Such a shame that you have ended up just dying.

Thank you for your applause.

I went to a guy
who told me that my show
was going to go well
so all your applause
is very much appreciated.

So get with it.
Start with the clapter.
Anytime now. Whenever you’re ready.
I’m waiting here.

This is unexpected.
After all I paid this guy
for his performance forecasting…
wait. Is it possible I misspelled his kind of prophet?