jonberger

I’m right-handed
but left-sided
if you know what I mean
which you probably don’t.

I write with my right hand
I throw with my right hand
badly, but I throw worse with my left
which, I guess,
is also the case with how I write.
I read once about mixed-handedness,
where one is capable of doing things
equally well with both hands
and I suppose the flip side
is doing things equally poorly
with both hands.
Maybe that’s me.

But then there’s my other leftishness:
I have one functional ear and eye
both on the left side.
On the right
are vestigial organs.
I keep the ear around
mostly to hold up my glasses
and the eye stays
because cybernetics are still bespoke.

I’m a creative
so maybe I’m left-brained
but probably I’m hare-brained
though clearly I’m not hair-headed
and sometimes people suggest both
that I’ve left my brain somewhere else
and not in my right mind
but that’s neither here nor there.

I just wanted to to write all this down
while I had paper left
so I could get it just right.

I don’t want to leave anything on the table
but I’m pretty sure if I put everything out there
just blow my wad all at once
give you all I’ve got
in one fell swoop
it’ll just be too much
and you’re gonna be freaked out
by the entirety
and I’ll have thrown away my shot
which would have made this all for naught.

So all
or nothing?
Or something in between?
I don’t think I have that sort of capacity
but I really want you to know
how important this all is
so I guess
before we got any further
let me just ask
do you really have it in you
to try the 100 ounce steak?

I couldn’t find the kid
for a good twenty minutes
earlier today.
She decided to take the bus
instead of getting picked up
but I didn’t know that
not at first
so with rising nerves
I checked the late kids spot
at the school
and the front desk,
then the bus stop,
in case we’d gotten our wires crossed
but since she’d headed home,
I saw no sign of her.

I raced the streets
looking for the kid
while she obliviously
followed a pretty regular routine,
chatting on the bus with friends,
nothing the matter,
getting home like it’s normal
until I arrived,
looking down wild-eyed
hairs displaced
voice raised
asking her where the hell she’d been.

“I guess I messed up,” she said, “you weren’t worried, were you?” I took a breath
then twenty more
and then twenty more
and I’m sure eventually
I will have an answer for her.

Tim says maybe the bad news
is really good news
just pushing some bad shit out of the way first.
Maybe it’s better to face the shit head on
rather than wasting some months
trying to avoid it
so you can look out for the good stuff sooner.

Tim tells me it might not be a bad idea
to try a little positivity.
An optimistic outlook
can yield better outcomes,
it can convince others of your confidence,
all that crap,
but really, it just feels better
and you don’t feel lousy all the time.

Tim articulates honest opinions that hit home
and feels pretty good as he says it
but, after hours,
gets harder to hold onto.

Tim truth-tells,
trying out terrific tantalizing details
all of which are educational,
all of which help.
Maybe some of them will change the game
if I take them to heart.

You know, thinking about it,
I suspect you’ve been just a tad too hasty
in your decision-making.
Really, you don’t have enough information
not to be in love with me.

When you look at all this
(make gesture, taking all of it in)
and just say “no,”
like some nay-sayer Nancy,
generations late,
it makes you look bad,
afraid to experiment,
frightened to take a taste
of something that might just
be terribly good for you.
Really,
how could you afford
not to try?

The wise person
uses empirical information
before making categorical decisions.
If half the lies I’ve told you
are true, then I’d truly be worth
the time of day, wouldn’t I?
And then some!
Something to think about.

And I do sincerely hope
that you think about me
just as I think about
how we can most quickly
spend your dowry.

Once upon a time,
a baker’s dozen really meant something.
Now, I go to Lenny’s on ninety eighth
and I order myself twelve bagels
and what do they do?
They give me six extra bagels!
You can’t trust no one
to do nothing right anymore!
What am I supposed to do
with eighteen bagels?
What is this mishigas?

Believe you me,
it’s not like the old days,
I can tell you that much for free.
They burned down the Broadway Diner,
you know.
Who? You know.
Them. The Jews.
Fine, then.
The Us.
We burned down the diner,
you happy?

I don’t know.
For the insurance, I guess.
Why not?
They say it’ll open again,
but it won’t ever be the same.
It never is.
The neighborhood’s changing.
You know, it wasn’t that long ago
that crack cocaine was available
on every corner
and I didn’t have to walk more than two blocks
to find a lady of the evening
to keep me company
for the night?

Now I have to use a service.
But at least I have the bagels to serve them
when they arrive, so…
there’s that.

It was Burgle with a bullet.
It was Graydon with a gun.
It was Heloise Horter
in the Hall of Heroes at One Hundred Harper’s Way
with a harpoon whip.
What’s a harpoon whip?
Reread chapter thirteen.

It was the secret senator
out for a final snort of the good stuff
before the blackmailer gave up the ghost
and admitted she had nothing to sell.
It was Uncle Irving in the Oyster Cloister.
It was James Dean at the start of his career.
It was Amanda Dunkle at the end of hers.

It was the cheat detective,
falsifying evidence
to finally break the big case
so that her career would be made
and she could stop charging two hundred dollars a day
plus expenses.
It was you, it was me,
it was the eggman…
all three.

It was society that did it
since the beginning of time
with its inability
to look out for every constituent
and the necessity of humans
to be cruel and efficient
and to destroy.
It was just us
all along.

Next question:
just what is it
that we’ve been accused of doing?
The defense rests.

The little girl asks my favorite song,
and in my current soppy state
I say “Alison,”
a classic tale of painful heartache
and growing older
and growing apart
and possible premeditated violence.

In the face of her blank stare,
I begin to sing my very best off-key iteration
which is very quickly interrupted.
“Alexa,” she says, “play something modern.”

I don’t recognize whatever modern pop hit
blazes through the speakers.
Certainly, it charted higher than Elvis Costello
back in his day.
This song serves a different purpose, though,
as the bass elastic
drums thumptastic
and synths so plastic
yields in us both moves enthusiastic.

The little girl picks me up
leads me to the living room floor
so in phase
and we dance
swept away in the moment by chance
as the music plays on
plays on.
I lose control, feel it in my soul
and beating heart
until I tremble like a flower
under the serious noon light.

Then, swaying, I slow
and stop
and breathe
and get outside my head
and consider a different kind of love
than the pathetic kind
that has beset me for days
and I stare at the little girl who offered it
but she has already moved on
to other pursuits.

“Alexa,” she asks,
“what’s a recipe for messy slime?”
“Alexa,” I say, “stop!”

Beloved,
I would have never let you go
never would have considered anything akin to an end
had I realized it would feel in any way like this.
I am sorry for what I’ve done
and please believe me,
I’d take it back if I could.

This state of affairs is miserable.
I am lonely without you;
sorrowfully anguished.
I have done awful things to get here
and feel awfully now.
This is not how I meant for any of this to go.
Well, some of it
– but it’s all gone wrong.

I’d beg your forgiveness
but I know you wouldn’t listen
to a word I had to say
even if I came to you to say them
so we’ll stay in our separate lands:
me in my cell
and you in your box.

Let’s take a little break
from the road we’ve taken
all right?
The sojourn we’ve been on
for last few hours
taking us from downtown
to downtown
even further on down
past park after park
through a couple of boroughs…
a younger man
was ready for these pleasures
and a younger man used to do this with you often
but then
neither of us
are younger men anymore.

Avenue F seems a fine place for a respite.
Just the spot to take a seat.

We can collect ourselves
and think about what we’ve seen
what inspired us to walk these many miles
the wonders we’ve experienced
the things that have changed since the last times
we’ve passed this way.
How long has it been for you?
I don’t come around her much anymore
but I should.
Maybe this is the start of something new.

Avenue F seems a good place to visit.
Just the sort of spot to come back to.

If we stop at the park
we can watch the trains go by.
Sure, we could have gotten here much faster
with their help
but that’s not the point.
That wasn’t the day we sought.
We were on a journey
on a walkabout.
We had no idea
we’d arrive at this old McDonald’s
or anywhere else on this random ramble.
It’s all been just right today.
Let’s continue to play it as it lays.

Avenue F is a good place to stop.
Just the spot to tell me what’s up.