jonberger

I would like to speak to the Calzone Authority
if I may
so I can have a better understanding
about the vast diversity
in size, volume and quality of calzones
I’ve experienced in my thirty five years
of sampling the products.

When I enjoy a calzone,
I ENJOY a calzone
but too many times
I have found the cheese inside
to be barely cooked
leaving me with chilly ricotta
which is not what I came into the experience for.

When I bought my first ‘zones from DP Dough,
they were consistently hot and crispy
but expanding out from that store
– then chain – I have found too much divergence.

If the Calzone Authority could use DP Dough
as their basis of QA, I think we’d be
in a much better national state.

I cannot speak on the subject of International Calzones.
On that topic, I will bow to other, wiser, poets.

But please, Calzone Authority, heed my words:
In the US
we can do better.
We must.

It’s usual to be lonely
in the middle of a big city.

It’s usual to wonder what to do
with so many options around you.

It’s usual for there to be traffic
when you really have to get there

in a timely fashion
and it’s usual for the ice cream cone
to flop out of your hands
right when the place closes.

It happens all the time.

It’s very very usual.

You know what else is usual?
Iron.
It’s, like, all over the place.

With five minutes to spare
there is naught but lost air
between here and there
to get us through.

Still with time so blasted short
I will struggle to report
that without having to abort
that I got word to you.

Can you confirm with response
that contact has been ensconced?
I’d be giddy – with nonchalance
and jumps and

shouts undue.

With the time now down to seconds
I know that soon an answer beckons

Have we spoken, do ye reckons?
But I think you already knew.

Walt on the TV was trying to say something,
something about the needs of the world
and I was not getting it.
Though he was shouting it out
with full fervor
I could not take it in.

I think it was about living life
at a hundred and eight percent
or fulfilling dreams
or electric sheep or something like that
but maybe the volume wasn’t high enough
and I just couldn’t get the message properly.

I hope the show comes on again
so Walt could transmit properly later.

They can’t all be the best.They can’t all be original.
They can’t all be number one.
Some have to follow
have to flatter through theft,
don’t they?

These practices are natural
this competition is part of the human spirit,
right?

Right?

The picnic was not quite so delightful as promised
with the unexpected showers
the poisonous spiders
and the empire of squirrels
whose domain felt surprisingly threatened on this unprepared day.

I’m sure the clouds will dissipate
anytime now
but the territory won
by the invading rodents
may not be reacquired
for years to come.
It may take many months to understand
how to withstand their acorn barrage alone.

I do not look forward
to forecasting the coming of spring.

I have never wondered
why nobody has asked me
why I don’t do cover poems.

Perhaps it is time for me to address this question anyhow.

I am not familiar with much poetry.
I could learn other people’s words.
There might be value in studying some poets.
I’m not sure that reciting other people’s work
would be the way to go, though.
Maybe just reading some classics
now and then.

I could start with Mother Goose…

Walking down Broadway
a guy goes out of his way to elbow me.
I stop in the street
stare at him as he passes.
“What?” He says.
“Excuse you.” I say.
“What.” He repeats, looking me in the eye.
“You just shoved me.”
“So? What you gonna do about it?”
“What am I gonna do about it?” I splutter. I’ve got no response. “I don’t know. Why would you do that?”
“The fuck you say?” He reaches in his coat with menace. “What you care what I do?”
He makes a good point. I have no idea what might be in the inside of his coat
– I don’t want to find out.
“Never mind,” I say, shrugging and turning away.
“Thought so,” he replies with disdain.
I go my way, hoping to forget the incident entirely.

I called the city because the tree
outside my front door needed help.
It was half torn
out of its spot,
I assumed, by a backing truck.

The help the city provided
was removing the tree
which was not what I had in mind.

Now I have no tree outside my front door.
It’s an industrial neighborhood,
the only green I can see within several blocks
Is weeds between cracked cement.

I have thought about calling to request
a replacement tree
but I shudder to think
how that request can be misunderstood.

On bad days,
the sound system was released from under its covers
the record was unsheathed
put on the turntable
the lights were put on dim,
and Momma would dance to “I Will Survive.”

This was for low days
when depression had set in.
There might have been problems with men
or work
or friends
that I would know nothing about
but the solution would be
a shot of Gloria Gaynor
– sometimes a triple.

I could understand the song
to a degree
about a woman done wrong
by a man
who wouldn’t love her right
and I felt helpless to support my mother.

I could only be there
to offer silent testimony
to Momma’s tribulations.

The dancing seemed to help.
She appeared better
after several repetitions.

I later would hear a male version
by Cake
that I could call my own.
I like Cake.