Duluth and the Girl I love.

I'm out here because you're in there. tucking in the kids with clean hands, bloodless hands

Now Warm dozing, dreaming, watching tv and spilling another glass of wine.

You gave me the money and told me up go

You didn't feel safe

You asked me to live with the monsters in the dark so you don't have to. You wanted it all to stop.

Out here the lights don't stop. they fight the darkness.

Out here the silence swarms up from my boots in the snow as I stop to exhale the violence in my heart, and my ears and eyes with every bit of alone this city has to give.

I watch you in your dark in house from my blacked out car; your sleepy shutters drawn.

Out here I watch your suicide son drive his car, fishtailing down backroads and main drags, trying to earn the invincibility he's already been given.

I pull your baby back from the edge thrusting my knuckles deep into her chest pushing life in as she chokes it out. 34 years, & 2 babies of her own. She's still your baby at least for another day.

I leave my own daughter in her bed her tiny fingers pulling at my pockets as I get ready to leave. Pleading with hugs for me to stay.

But you gave me the money. You gave me the gun.

You asked me to live with the monsters in the dark.

i woke up at the end of the world

i woke up
at the end of the world.
arm in arm 
with my favorite girl.
lightening split the sky
and thunder shook the ground
i wasn't looking for the lost
they didn't want to be found.
Ooooo...

la la la la la

i once knew a man
who shot himself in the foot.
that sacramental limp
the holy oil of pain
its all by the book.
and i'm not looking for the lost
they don't want to be found...
Ooooo...

la la la la la

i woke up
at the world's end.
i was wrestling with angels...
He was wrestling with men.

la la la la la
(and i woke up at the end of the world.)

words &  music by Eric C Bervig
Demo recorded in his basement December 20, 2012
marking the eve of the end of the Mayan calendar.

a birth story

These are the stories that are told. 
Stories of pain and moaning,
grasping and bleeding, fear and
jubilant relief. These are good stories.
A currency to be traded in kind.

But they are not mine.

I could hear you coming for days.  
Winston, you gregarious fat man.
Your piquant smile a knife.
Stone-of-Joy standing 
jauntily upon the world's
last island. wielding pen and 
voice at the black dragon, its mouth 
full of fear and ashes.

I could see you for hours.
Leander, Swimming your Hellespont,
and as your face appeared 
it was blue as the waves, 
and your eyes darker still
for Medusa's blood filled snakes 
were wrapped round and round your neck.
Lion-Heart you clawed away the snakes and 
swam on to your Hero and her alabaster towers.

I could smell you in the air
and taste you on my lips
Waits, Watch-man.  
You back alley balladeer.
Croaking, bleating, beating the drum
of the every day miracles midst 
every day's unique misery.
Your eyes open and your mouth 
an organ of soul
You smelled of shit, blood, sweat,
and truth, 
and then you opened your 
mouth and sang it all again, and I 
believed every note.

I took you in my arms and called you
Herbert.  My own.  Blood and sweat
of my blood and sweat.  My blood flowing 
in you and yours in me forwards
and backwards through all time.
Forever Herbert. Forever my son.

an onion

fragments
from layers
of an onion
piled on the counter-top
you with your knife
and your tears.
i focus intently
on the curve of your
spine and how it reacts
as i sputter and whine
in curt response
to sour accusations
like the knife's edge.
the pungent air
has less to do now
with the onion,
our exchanges heavy
on our faces
as we turn to
more urgent affairs,
the smell of our fears
sharp and poignant.

dress up

rummaging through my shirts
at an even pace
my closet wide and tidy
ordered like the stages of the
stratosphere or
a Sunday morning sermon.

they are each there on display
blue and grey and
black and brownish
red or white or striped and clean
all to mask my affections
all to redress the pale flesh
and course hair beneath.

i have sweaters for
cold days like this one,
and playful ties and
stout belts and even
fresh pressed slacks.
they envelop my body like
the pea green afghan
grandmother knitted me
during the Advent
while she was waiting for
the scotch pine to arrive
to dress up her ever reaching arms,
and those Salvation Army ringers
with their constant clank of the asking,
and Grandfather to come home
from his work on the road
to make sugar cookies and even better.

i rummage through my closets
at an even pace
looking for the right styles to wear
choosing again with my eyes shut tight
like a sailor at the
blackjack table or
a Sunday morning prayer.

colored tissue paper

We are secular and lonesome,
Poem.
Our portions plastered
tightly,
adorned with
colored tissue paper
clutching to
this shape of our languid pinata
dangling now
in the fear of celebrations and
unbroken.
All the treasure
wrapped and trapped
inside.

baby faces

you are wild and new
baby faces
ever shifting as
the spring tides
changeable as
a Minnesota sky
what dare you
to think
in your wordless phrases
behind those wandering
eyes?
your face brings
hope as a new day
your faces bring
breath for a song.

you are vivid and soft
baby faces
unchanging as
a river's flow
unmoved as
a standing stone
what dare you
to utter
in your speechless way
outside of the realm of my
perceptions?
your face brings
joy to ease longings
your faces bring
agape for my soul.

(for Ingrid Katarina Joy)