jonberger

Back in the days
when there were offices
and people had jobs
and I was a people
I would go to the bathroom
palming a paperback
and sit on the toilet
for up to an hour, reading.

This was back when I was an assistant
and had less of a work ethic.
I would never do such a thing now.

It was also before smartphones
ruined innovation in leisure activities.

I would enjoy the subterfuge,
sneaking the book past those who might care
so that I could avoid doing work
– when of course there was little work to do –
back before there was endless work to be done
without the jobs
without offices
without people.

Those were times
back in those ancient times.

The head is a separate unit today.
Not the thought center
– just the head, the big pulsing thing
that the ears carry around.
It’s been hurting lately,
probably because sleep hasn’t been working out right.

Maybe because of these poetical assignments you’ve been given.
These poetical assignments
that nobody cares about
nobody requires
nobody needs
and nobody
will care
if you
fuck
off
&
stop.

Maybe that’s the cause of the pulsing.
Still, there’s more to write tonight
and I have miles to go
before my roads diverge
tonight
between tossing and turning
or something else again.

Maybe I could take a pill
or drink my recommended daily amount of water.

Everybody knows more than me. It’s a thing I just learned, you see. I thought I knew a lot, I now disagree because everybody knows more than me.

I was out tonight at a talk. The talker talked a lot; he didn’t balk.
He was such an expert, I was shocked. Afterwards I took a real long walk.

In the crowd there were some experts, too. They gave the speaker quite a bit to chew on.
He refined positions based on what they knew. I wish that was something I could do, but

Everybody knows more than me. It seems they just come by it naturally. I thought I was so smart, but now I see that everybody knows much more than me.

I went to the barbers to cool off, and maybe find some spirits that I could quaff.
When I walked in, they were discussing heterotrophs; I gave the place a quick brush-off.

The library was next, I thought I’d smarten up. Find the fruit of knowledge and then sup
or squeeze its juice into a golden chalice-y cup. Then I’d learn stuff, too, yup!

But now: everybody knows more than me. They’re all smarter, whether he, she or thee
or they or ze or any other possibility – everybody knows a lot more than me.

Ev-er-y-bo-o-o-d-y-y-y-y knows so-o-o-oo much more than meeeeee!

Her head on my shoulder
as we were about to start the movie,
she said, “Let me know when I can look at your screen.
I don’t want to see any compromising information.”
I said, “To you, I’m an open book.
I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Still leaning on me, she shook her head.
“Everybody’s got something to hide.
Tell me when to open my eyes.”

I logged onto the site,
so we could chill.
While watching the sub/dom-zom-rom-com,
I wondered, “Do I have something to hide?”
and I couldn’t think of anything she did not know.

I’d already admitted to my affection for animal husbandry
and wiccan wifery.
We’d spoken about my time in the Hunduran reserves
and the space I leave available for Himalayan preserves.
I talked about the Moorcock fanfic and the Philip K Dick pics
and the barrels and barrels of hick lit.
I’d spilled about everything.

But maybe she’d chosen not to listen.
Maybe she hadn’t heard a thing.

Perhaps the only thing to do
was to speak the truth again
only louder.

“Honey,” I said, closing the laptop,
“We’ve got to talk.”

I would never admit it,
but you captured me so easily.
In the night
under your moon,
I was far too soon yours.

I was perfectly placed for a pick-up
and you found me
like you weren’t even looking.
Maybe your eyes were peeled
for some other kind of target
and I was just easy pickings.

I wasn’t hard to catch.

But I guess the easy ones are no challenge
and can be thrown back
if not satisfying
by any standard you could choose.

That would explain
why I’m still out
at your old hunting grounds
night after night
under your moon
seeking to be caught again.

She said she was Frances, like the countries.
“Like… the countries?”
“Like the countries. Like France – but a bunch of them.”
“Oh,” I said, as if I understood, “Nice to meet you.”
It was.

She played her sad songs,
because “Sad songs are what make me feel
– and when I’m happy, I don’t want to write.”
Her sad songs felt like she wore older clothes
but she was very young.

She seemed like she was from only one country, too.
I can’t say where.
She left kinda quickly.
Maybe she had to cross a couple borders.

I’m not as sarcastic as I seem.
I am, in fact, very sarcastic
but you will look at me on occasion and say
“You don’t have to be sarcastic!”
and I will look at you aghast and say,
“I wasn’t being sarcastic. I’m so sorry!”

I suppose I should say I am not always sarcastic
and will sporadically be sincere
and still be accused of saying something
with an ironic tone
or twist in my eyebrow
or a smirk in my smile.

You may doubt the truth
and dis my claims of ingenuousness
but I speak with honesty.
Sometimes, I am for real.
Really.

The feature film we finished did not conquer the world.
It was The End of the World.
That was its name.
I have not seen the movie
since we took it on the theater circuit
in the earliest 90s.

We were a comedy troupe in high school
and we kept it going in college
long enough to finance and film
90 minutes of plot and sketches.

I’d like to say it was good
but it’s been over 30 years since I’ve laid eyes
on my movie.
Memories don’t capture quality
over that time.
I’m pretty certain I’ve still got a VHS copy
and a friend who was in the cast.

Would he bear to watch it with me?
I can only ask the question.

It’s been a while now
but long ago
in days past
at clubs long gone,
I used to dance.

When the right band would play
with the right song
I would jump up and make a fat fool of myself
prancing about
sweating and swiftly shifting positions,
posing and provoking anyone around.
I would move.

People would be stunned, sometimes,
into silence,
when I worked that quiet art.
While normally such a vocal creator,
with dance I could let my toesies do the talking.
They would say a lot.

As years have passed
and gray hairs have fallen,
I have tripped the lights spastic less and less often,
down to my current none.
I seem to be done with dancing.

I can only wonder
in my heart of hearts:
is dancing done with me?

I would be remiss
if I didn’t mention
that my current full-time job
is looking for work.
I’ve been slacking off quite a bit.

I have a sense of what I’m looking for:
I want some admin work
in a collegiate environment
in the city – preferably Manhattan.
I haven’t done those kind of support jobs in a few years
but I can flunkie with the best of them.

I’m hoping to find something at Columbia,
because it’s close to where I live
and ‘cuz it’s fucking Columbia.
It looks like their lowest paying gigs
are thousands above what I was last making
so if you’re connected to the University
– any college, really –
you should be hooking me up.