jonberger

It probably was no big deal. I mean, I survived it
but by that standard,
Noah’s flood was no big deal
nor was the Holocaust for the survivors
and this was exactly like those,
so what am I talking about?

Here’s the skinny:
I woke up, put on pants,
turned on the computer and got to work.
Only I didn’t remember anything.

I remembered basics, like my name, my location,
my place in the universe.
I didn’t remember how to do my job, though,
which I could do two days before.

I’d had a rough night;
didn’t get much sleep.
Tossed and turned. I was dazed, sure, but now
I was horrified.
The job requires a lot of cutting and pasting,
using key codes, remembering certain details.
Being forgetful was not a boon for getting through the day.

I knew how to type.
I knew how to use applications
like email and longer running programs
but the things I had learned specifically for the job
– more short term memories –
were not coming to me, or at least, not quickly.

I was worried about a stroke.

It was a Sunday, and most of the staff
of my remote job
were out
and I don’t communicate with them much
under normal circumstances.
In my frazzled state
I didn’t think to reach out to anyone
so I just worked alone
in a state of mute confusion.

I didn’t call family or friends
because my head
was not on right.
I don’t know why I didn’t speak to my room-mate
when the word "stroke" started pulsing harshly
in my skull.
Whatever was causing my dysfunction
was not leaving clear thinking in its wake.

An hour into work
after enough false starts
and desperate guesses
as to how to get things done
I found I had to take a break
and I got onto my bed
and I took a nap
and the world swirled.

I began to question
if I had been living in reality
and maybe this lack of understanding
was me peeking behind the matrix
and seeing the real reality.
I lay paralyzed in bed
during the nap.

Fifteen minutes ticked by
and my break ended.
Back to the matrix, I guess.

Work went no better after my rest
and I realized I wasn’t going to make it through the day.
I mean, I’d survive, maybe,
if I didn’t have a stroke,
but maybe I should get that looked at?

So I called out to an email robot
sent my doctor’s email box a message,
asking if I was dying,
and finally called my mother
so I was no longer suffering in silence
and instantly felt better.
It’s not like part of my body ever shut downso the stroke theory was weak from the start.
With anxiety, I put that aside
then fell asleep for a few hoursand when I awoke
I began to remember things again.

When I spoke to doctors
– first my GP
and then a brain guy –
they couldn’t find anything wrong with me
and shrugged it all off.
The best they could come up with
was my working theory:
I was really tired.

Nothing could quite explain the existential crisis
and my dream state where reality faltered
and I questioned where I really sat in the state of things.
But I guess that’s just Sundays for you.

What hurt you?
Who?
Where is the primordial pain
that fuels all of these
ridiculous things that you always seem to do?

What has made you tick in this particular way?
Why do you say the things you say?

I’d like to know if I can.
I’m just that sort of curious kind of man.

If you can’t stop being the kind of thing you are
you’ll still remain more interesting by far
than anyone else I ever will chose to spar with;
and that’s the kind of thing I would swear on any old blazing star.

My wrist had been bothering me for a while.It had been about a month since I took the spill
going around that turn on campus
on the bike.
It had been wet
and I braked too hard
and my ankle was sensitive over a fall
the month before that
so I made a point to put pressure on my hands
and my right one had been feeling off ever since.

It’d been a while now, though,
so to Physical Services I did go.
The doc looked it over and suggested an X-Ray
so I went off-campus to have it looked at.
I shrugged and got it done.
When I got the call, there seemed a lot more tension over the airwaves.

"Could you come back down here right away?"

It seems there was a fracture in my wrist
which was the closest thing to a break
I had ever known.
Words were thrown around: navicular fracture to the ulna
it sounded like, but it was many years ago.
The names may have been changed to protect the innocent.

They put my arm in a cast
past my elbow
to ensure no movement
for a set of months.
No writing
no typing
no biking.
I became a leftie.

It was a bad time for my education.
It was a blur.
It’s a wonder I graduated in time.
It smelled by the end.

At least I didn’t hurt my ankle again.

Have I told you the one about the sea urchin?Stop me when it sounds too familiar.
My family was in the Virgin Islands
and my father and I were off exploring.

We had explored too far
for we had stepped on sea urchins, which,
if you’ve ever done it, don’t.
They’re made of spikes,
so just… don’t.

It hurt, you might say, to have walked on something
made of spikes.
I cannot speak for my father
but four-year-old me was shocked, hurt,
and couldn’t walk worth a damn afterward.

But we had to get back to the house
and feet are what you use to do the walking
and feet are what were hurt
by walking on spikes, so
you see the problem.

Dad took me in his arms
and carried me back to the place we were staying.
My mind’s eye can see his face, the pain,
as his two feet carried us both through torture
back to the house.
I am not a father, and I likely never will be,
but my memory sees responsibility,
sees fatherhood, in my Daddy’s action that day.

If I told you that story before,
I’m here to tell it again.
Thank you, Dad.

The bike dwarfs you
and its shadow encompasses you
like architecture
in the hallway.
You are careful as you address it,
but not careful enough
because the next thing you know,
you are crashed within it
and the next thing you know,
you have the scar on your head,
which you only faintly see
when you baldify
twenty-odd years later.

These are memories of a three-year-old,
but they are memories
that have been shared with you
so often
you do not know
if they are yours,
or painted for you
to believe as your own.

You suspect the latter.
You know the latter.

You were not really there
for that first formative bike crash.

You will have many others
that will make up for it later.

Today’s the day my dead dad turns eighty four.It probably means less now than it ever would before.
You ask, "Do you love him?" I reply, "Yes, of course!"
Today’s the last day my dead dad turns eighty four.

Wait! I made a mistake! He’s actually eighty eight!
Congratulations, Pops! I’ll try to keep it straight.
You were born in thirty six; there’s no room for debate.
Today’s the first day your ghost will be eighty eight.

It’s not like I believe in afterlife or Heaven and shit.
I just wanna cover bases, getting credit ‘fore I split.
Maybe admit reincarnation’s a hit
and then celebrate, getting dead dad’s candle’s lit.

Anyway, happy birthday my dead dad.
Hope you enjoy in your zombie party pad
eating brains with all your new undead comrades.
Love, your son, a living, middle-aged lad…

You left somethinga few years ago
and I have made it into a fetish:
an object of honor
up on a shelf
held in high regard
only annually used
for the filthy purposes
you presumed.

It is a small thing,
something you would presume
would have been thrown out
but I couldn’t bear that be done
with something that you held
so I kept it, treasured it,
and now it is the fetish on the wall
used religiously
for its customary purposes.

It was a can of Sprite that set it off.
I dreamed of this girl in my math class
whom I hadn’t much thought of before.
She saw me drinking soda and engaged me.
“You like Sprite? I like Sprite!”
She smiled, and we talked for what was hours
in dreamtime
and made me think we really connected
when I woke up
and it took me a little while
to realize
it wasn’t true
even after I was dressed and on the train.

I started thinking about her differently,
this girl,
and my crush grew
and grew
and probably stopped growing a few years
after I last saw her.

She was cute, of course,
but she was forthright. THAT
was the thing.
She seemed brave
while short.
I found her adorable.
I was afraid to talk to her
too much.

I could ask her for homework,
though.

I never got to figure out
if she actually liked Sprite.
To this day
I still drink it.

Gods, I’m sure it has, but
I pray that the world
hasn’t beaten you down yet.

When last we spoke
it seemed like it was doing a good job
that you were on your way
to losing your will.

I might be wrong;
we weren’t the closest.
You might not have been showing me
your full fighting spirit
but it seemed the fire that seemed so strong before
was limited,
leaning closer to the Empty side.

I would hate that.
You’d been a vision.
You’d been a spectacle.
You had been a sort of inspiration
something to live up to:
a manic pixie dream statue
and to think that you could be dragged down amongst us?
This is a world I do not want.
I want you in the Faerielands!

I am happier
that we are out of touch
so I can hope that you are doing something mythical somewhere
living out an adventure
and not cleaning up some codemonkey’s work
somewhere in Albuquerque.

This is so rare. It is unprecedented. I have many an unrequited love.
It is embarrassing how unrequited my loves are
and to most of them, I remain true.
Not monogamous, but I remain dedicated to them all; faithful.
For you, though: the love has soured.
I got over it sometime back.
I’m not quite sure what happened.
What changed that made you so

disappointing?

I’ve known others that have matured
developed into new personalities
changed into someone fresh
someone intriguing in other ways
but you
are a different thing entirely
and I
cannot say I care for it.

I can congratulate you
for your unique standing.
You have done something unprecedented
and found a way
to fall out of favor
in my frazzled heart.
Well done, that.
Quite an accomplishment indeed!