Mike Bergeron

Mike Bergeron Dec 2012

You should be careful,
That gator bites.

Just one mouthful
And he won't let go.

At least not without a fight,
One you don't have in you.

Tempt him,
Feel the rush.

He likes it too.
Get enough, and you'll ask him politely:

“Give us a kiss,
And I'm forever yours.

This bliss is too sweet
To ever ignore.”

He'll smooch, and the razors
In your skin will sing
Along with you.

Your choice, right?
I knew you'd be careful.

There's a good chip
On that shoulder,
Not like Utz.

Nobody ever eats just one,
And you're nobody.

Mike Bergeron Dec 2012

--A Lack Of Actions, Way Past Mercy--

"The **** has been
Caked on the fan
For so long
It can no longer spin.
We're choking on
Our own exhaust,
Debating over how to win
And who to blame
Once we've lost.
The truth is that
They're both the same,
Because what gets tossed
Comes back again.
The karmic boomerang
Holds sway over all,
Not the tang
Of pharmic poison
Fed to us by tall
White men
Who know how to talk,
Know how to convince
Us we need to swallow chalk
Flavored with artificial mint
To counteract
Our bubbling guts
And all the junk therein,
The salty snacks
And big mac meals
And lack of vitamins."

His rant was cut short
By a burst of nausea.
Pete leaned over on his
Ancient barstool
And vomited his
Last six drinks
And his last
Eight handfuls
Of peanuts
Onto the floor.
The stern face
Behind the bar
Came around
And screamed
At us to
Get the **** out,
Which was fine with me;
I hadn't yet
Paid for my drinks.

The humid air outside
Was like a damp pillow
Pressed over my mouth
After the air conditioned bar.
I parted ways with Pete,
And sauntered down
Newman Ave,
Taking periodic swigs
From my pint of gin.
The .38 my father
Brought home from the war
In Europe was tucked
Into my pants at my waist,
The box of bullets
In my coat pocket
Knocked against my chest With each step.
The sense of being followed
Was heavy in my head
As I turned onto
The bike path.
Maybe my son
Coming for a visit,
To stand in the trees
Where he thinks I can't
See him, silently
Watching my ritual.
"Maybe he'll come
Speak to me,"
I thought,
"Try to understand
Why I do
The things I do,
To see how
Hard life can be."
I loaded my pistol
And began unloading
Into the trees.

Mike Bergeron Dec 2012

--The Comfort Of Carnivores--

In a world full of ugly people,
A city made of hideous faces,
A phone call means everything.
It means a voice, free from
Its crooked nose, its wrinkled skin,
And its gapped, stained, crooked teeth.
It means a connection.
With another, with yourself,
And with the ability to disconnect
At the push of a button.
I take out my scratched, chipped cellphone
With its cracked face,
And call Helen.
Her voice swims through the mud
Inside my skull when she answers,
Stirring and churning
Until I'm weak and dizzy.
"How 'bout you just come
On over now, Big Fella?"
And I do.
I turn off the squawking television,
Don a pair of food-stained pants,
Drag a comb through my
Overgrown hair,
And descend the stairs to my
Waiting Oldsmobile.
The turn of the key in the ignition
Only produces a hollow click,
One click two click three click six,
Then a partial start,
But the beast fails to come alive.
I get out to replace
The fried starter fuse,
Then do this dance four more times
Before the old ***** clears her throat
And starts to idle.
It's a short ride,
Pawtucket is small,
And my only companion
On these post-midnight streets
Is the white noise
Issuing from the broken radio.
I pass the house I grew out of,
The crumbling schools
That taught me the value
Of impartial numbness,
The cemetery my father used to visit
To perpetrate the lie
He lives;
The role of a child
And the permanence
Of parents.
I pass abandoned factories
And abandoned hope
And abandoned pets
And abandoned storefronts.
In a world of full of past relics,
In a city full of ghosts,
A crumbling façade means everything.
It means bricks freed from their mortar,
Separated from their history,
Left to be picked up and thrown through plate glass windows.
Buildings are never empty,
Just quiet.
I pass the CVS at Newport and Armistice,
With its twenty four hour pharmacy,
Dispensing the one a.m. hydrocodone,
The one thirty a.m. dextroamphetamine,
The two a.m. oxycodone,
The two thirty a.m. alprazolam,
The three a.m. dextromethorphan,
The three thirty a.m. methylphenidate,
The four a.m. eszopiclone,
The four thirty a.m. benzodiazeprine,
The five a.m. phenylpropanolamine.
I drive past the clinic in the old senior center
With its six a.m. methadone ready to go
In pre measured cups.
Buildings can be quiet, but not empty.
Helen lives on the third floor of a three story house
Built sometime in the forties,
Forgotten sometime in the eighties.
The two bottom floors are vacant,
The windows are boarded,
The driveway is choked with weeds,
And two lounging cats don’t flinch
When I walk by them
On my way to the door in the rear of the building.
The door is always unlocked,
So I let myself in
And begin the rickety climb to the top.
The higher I go,
The louder Amy Winehouse’s voice gets.
“What kind of fuckery is this?”
Seems an adequate question.
There are ****** handprints on the railings,
The walls,
Drops polka dot the stairs.
I don’t bother knocking,
I never do.
She’s seated in a La-Z-Boy in the kitchen
Facing the door,
In a cloud of cigarette smoke.
In place of exchanged pleasantries
I say I need to use the bathroom
And she nods,
Eyes locked on mine.
I take a look at my sallow image
In the mirror,
With specks of toothpaste and hairspray
Pocking my face like acne.
The toilet bowl is still streaked
With the last man’s ****.
I ****, wash my hands,
And take another look at myself.
Helen is no longer in the chair,
But I know where to find her.
She’s sprawled on the bed,
With a new cigarette in her mouth,
The toys spread out on one side,
The tools on the other.
I tell her I’ll forgive her for stabbing me the other night
If I can get a freebee now.
She shakes her head once,
Exhales a cloud,
“Not gonna happen, Champ,”
And I take what I can get.

Mike Bergeron Dec 2012

--Follow Me, Shirt Brother, Rise From Ripped Yellow Faces--

Like,
Just   the  way  I  make    away.
I know    time    maybe    left    air
For    my    face.   I   feel    my    eyes,    hair.
Really    got    right    today,
Cuz    old    Night    means    good    love.
I    told    myself    inside,
I     guess   the     mind   is   ****,
I    think    life   is  this    house,
I    want    water.
Smoke   makes    that    little    *******    ****    feel    like    skin.
I    Say   I   saw…    they're    light.
Home    looks    roomy,
Head    hits    bed.
There's   a    window    that    falls,
Tried    a   street    man   that     couldn't    walk.
My    blood   is    red.
I    need   a   real    past,
My   hands   are    cold    sweat.
Isn't    hell   watching    people,    years?
Brain    feeling    American.
Apartment    doesn't   feel   gone,
Hands    trying   to    be    dead,
Getting    rain.
Stop    waiting,
Wind.
Black   in    place,
She's   always    happening!
Let's   see   sense,
Better    forget   the   dark    morning.
Heart,    feet    are    open.
Sure,
Passing    fat   looked     ******,
But   walking   guys
Hear    wet    dust.
In    came    sleep…
Remember   laughter?
Arm,    hope,
Newly    broken.
Burning    hard,
Standing    on    the    floor   with     the     rest.
Going    knows    gold.
Heat    sounds       escaping,
Sit    outside     instead.
Car    going    ‘thump’,
Best    world    forever.
Alive,
God    comes    white.
Asleep,    start   asking.
Thoughts,    believing    in    far.
Beautiful,    moving,
Turns    kept    the   road    long.
Falling    father,    dirt   on   a   red     neck,
Dropping    flames.
Eating    pressure.
You'll   lose     things,
Dreams    break.
Set,    lost,    close    cut.
Oh,    no     matter,
It     has    been    brought.
Making   songs    leave     the   mouth,
Sights    of    a    child     shrouded    in    blue    lights.
City,    ok?
Windows,
Kids    are    expected,
A     pulled    stomach,
Point   was    took.
Pearson    sent   his   parents    to     the    big    ground.
Wall    of     energy,
Cloud    of     glass.
You've  (  ).
Won't (  ).
We're (  ).
School    makes    the    soul   smile,
Green    ones    full   of    glee.
Hot    body,    lips    breathing,
Taking,
Using,
Playing    lives.
Stand.
Lay.
Lie    girl,
Different      things     can    happen,
Small    teeth    fall.
Nothing     happened.
The    river   has     seen   its    worth    in    leaves,
The    sun   is    fine.
Drive.
Fingers    carefully     fly.
Heavy    riding     heard,    I     knew    the     figure.
Probably    picked    an    older     man.
Walking    near   the    door,    a    dog     howls.
Chest    plan:    free   space.
Yea,   a    plastic    throat,
Spent    ears,
Children    drunk,    screaming.
Stove    ---sightline----    cool     to     the    touch.
A     cigarette   is     replaced.
The      roof    fills,
We'll    say     it      wouldn't,
But    it   spills.
Kettle     is     shut.
The    crowd    lies.
I    get    in     my    cheeks    that    dream    taste,
Wake  with    it    forgotten.
I      held    a     human…    wait…..
Just     rotting    money.
Truth.
The    sea    uses    sunlight;
Think    of   that   fact.
Coming,    living   sick,
Wishing     the    weight    of    boys   grew    high.
Pretty    pass    growing    mold,
Pull     it,
Then    explain.
The    sidewalk    has    grown,   I’m     talking    blocks.
Looking    hurt,
In    a    memory    corner,
I     wonder     why   I     painted    filled    *******.
Follow    me,    shirt    brother,
Rise    from      ripped   yellow    faces.
We’re     all    scared.
Eventually    the   men    say    spring,
The    snow    turns    grey,    glowing.
Sounds    paid    for,    blame    runs     deep.
I    bought    an    adjusted    flying    weather    cat.
The    stretcher    is     *****,
Uncomfortable.
Thoughts    do    magic     with      clouds,
Just    a    paint    job.
Kiss,    hold,   for    hours.
My     desire    torn,    the     pieces    hide.
Run.
Drink.
Fear
Death.
Die    in     the    year    you’re      supposed      to.
Wrong    garbage,     cabrón.
Reading,   I    realize    I’m    quite    sane.
But     beauty   is    slowly    ending.
The    town    watched    us    holding    our    work.
One     burned    word:    FUTURE.
Kind   paths,    catching    ears,    displays.
Glowing,
Burning,
Paying    attention.
The    reality:    I    miss    *******,    crossed    noses,
Sand,    fruit,
Wearing    smiles   I    barely    felt.
Case    for     infinity:   double    humanity    lives.
A     woman,    with    bones    rippling,
A    rock    lot,
A    circle    grave.
View   it    filling.
My    baby    looks    tired.
Tie   her    too    soon,    watch    the    grass    laid    dry.
Colored    boxes    rolling    uphill,
Police   under     brown   cover.
I    adjust   to   the     necessary    gaze,
Shoes    are     half   in    the   &nbs

Mike Bergeron Dec 2012

--Mop vs Hand--

A ****** finger,
And my band-aid won't stick.
What a ****.

Mike Bergeron Nov 2012

--I Don't Care Man, Get Out Of My Face--

That guy saw me,
He watched as I tossed
The crumpled receipt
Into the gutter.
I can't believe he saw
That gross display.
I want to scream.
I have to tell him
That's not who I am.
I'm a good person,
Not a litter-critter,
I love the earth,
I'm a good person,
I always hold the door
For whoever is behind me,
I recycle everything,
I let people merge
Onto the highway,
I promptly shovel
The snow from my sidewalk.
I don't intentionally pollute,
That's not me!
If you knew my life,
Mister Cigarette-Break-Man
On Wilson Blvd,
You'd see I'm a good person.
Look at my reusable
Shopping bag
And my eight year old jeans.
I've never stolen clothes
Or candy,
I've never ******
A drunk girl.
You'll never see me rob
A geriatric,
Or tell the annoying
******* the subway
To just shut up already.
I never dip on the bill,
Or put my **** on the wall
Of the public bathroom,
Or take my neighbor's
Newspaper,
Or take my mother's
Prescription poisons.
I'm good to the core.
No touching little kids
For this me,
I'm a good guy.
Why did he give me that look?
As if I love to litter?
Who does he think I am?
Who does he think he is?
He's wrong,
And I'm going back,
**** this.
He needs to know
The truth.
I'll make him see.

Mike Bergeron Nov 2012

--A Con Can Be A Pro, With Enough Practice--

She said it close to my ear,
Like a goose down comforter
Muffling a cat's purr.
Softly exhaled,
Sweetly hortative,
The words danced through
The monolithic inner halls
Of my ear and mind.
The sounds of shuffled socks on floorboards
And velvet-gloved hands
Tapping walls
Echoed like the sea.
This pillow had never cradled
My thinning hair
So delicately,
With such maternal
Firmness and warmth.
Lost in the blankets
And sheets,
My hands and feet slept
Like post-carnival children.
She said it like a phantom
Alone in a field,
"Get the **** out of my bed,
Or I'll scream."