jonberger

The hangover wasn’t severe
but the sun was blazing
on New Year’s morn
as we struggled crosstown
to brunch with my aged aunt
who was celebrating one of her many, many
manymanymany birthdays.
I tried to not look up
to stay in shadows
to keep still
until we got to her doorman building
and entered.

We hugged.
We spoke.
She cried
as she had for years
since her husband passed
and she remembered
again
in the face of senility.
I cheered her
as best I could
and we got on the road
to the restaurant
which was far too loud
for a man who had been out til three
the night before
on the Eve.

It was light conversation
since I could not do any heavy linguistic lifting
in the face of the brainal pains
I was experiencing.
The other people did their best
to pick up the slack
but my aunt cried again.
I closed my eyes
hoping it would all go away.

The meal was so inconvenient
for a partying person
who had just
hours before
made out with a girl
he had only met earlier in the evening.
I was practically a man
and I would have liked to still be in bed
dreaming of the drinks of yesterday
and thinking not of an elderly aunt
and her silly needs.

Eventually the afternoon ended
and we walked her home
(sun hid behind appreciated clouds)
bidding farewell to my aunt
as she went upstairs
to face the rest of the day
of her birth.
It may be the last time I saw her.

Betty’s dead
for quite some time now
but it’s still her birthday
so wish her well.
Less and less of those who live
can remember Betty.
Her only grandchild gay
and unlikely to spawn
any more of her line,
her legacy diminishes.
Concretely,
there is little left
that tethers my aunt
to the world.
I don’t even know
where’s she’s buried.
I think of her, though
and still love her
a little.
Happy birthday, Betty.
I hope you’re happy now.

We keep praying
to see the ass-end
of this syphilitic whore of a year
but most of what went wrong
will still be wrong
when the ball drops
and the old man
meets the bawling baby.
It’s only getting worse.
More people will die.
One person will lie
and so many others
will vie for a piece
of that corrupt pie.
We have bad times ahead
and though very few of us
will be sad
to see this year go
it’s quite clear
that the year to come
will also be dumb.

I’ve been pondering
and I can’t figure it out.
What do you like?
How can you spend your time
with someone like me
when Steve is just so many feet away?

You should like Steve.
I can’t imagine
why you don’t.
What is it about him
that rubs you the wrong way
that you’d even look my way?

Is there something
in your upbringing
that leaves you unable to see beauty
as it unfolds?
Do you lack the faculties
to understand just how cool he is?
Don’t you get
that he’s where your attentions should lie?

What is wrong with you
that you can’t see
what a bad choice you’re making?
How could you be so foolish
to waste your time
and mine?

Eventually you’ll see
how mistaken you can be
and make the better decision.
I hope it’s soon
for your sake
and Steve’s.
For mine
I hope it’s never.

Don’t die.
I know you have every right to.
I know you turn 94 today
and this has proved to be
The Year When People Die
and you are
among your many accomplishments
a people.
I know that stronger men than you
(younger, at least)
have succumbed to 2016 already.
I understand these things but
as a man of myths and marvel
you must understand
how important
story can be.
If you, the creator, fall,
then so falls the world.
But if you get out of this year alive
there is hope for us all.
Lead us not into desperation.
Give us hope, Stan.
Give us something to believe in.
Don’t die yet.
Not this tragical absurdist
shitfuck of a year.
Give us that one blessing, at least.

When I saw you
across the crowded room
I forgot to breathe
but not like back in the day
when you took my breath away
with such regularity.
This time,
it was the shock
of the unexplained.

What were you doing?
I haven’t seen you around these parts
for many months.
You don’t belong here
anymore.

But upon review
I realized it was not you
but a lookalike,
some doppelgänger
disguised as the you I’d last seen
but better.

She was gorgeous
like you
but not weighed down
by years of disappointment,
or eyes made tired
by constantly judging me,
my promises and lies.
She appeared innocent
unrecognizant of our entire history.
She seemed cleaner
because of it.

Cleaner she remained
since without breath
I could find no way
to approach her
and find out
how similar you two were.
All for the better
I suppose.

Andrew Ridgeley is sad
about what has happened
to his former partner.
Andrew is struck
by the fragility of life
and thinks
“if it could happen to him,
it could happen to anyone.
It could happen to me!”
and begins to fear
for his legacy.

“As the only link
to our illustrious past,”
Andrew believes,
“I must protect our good name.
I must safeguard against degradation
of our grand history.”

He worries about their accomplishments,
considers the possibility
of their falling by the wayside,
ponders how to ensure the world remembers them
forever.
It is a difficult task
one that he hopes he is up to now
alone.
If only there was anyone
to help him.
In a flash:
Wham!
he no longer wants freedom
of any sort at all.

Please don’t write me
or call me
or reach out to me
in any way.
I just need a little time
to process.
I’d like a chance
to consider everything we’ve talked about
and come to some resolution
on my own
without any further input.

Do you think that’s possible?
Do you think
we could have this one night apart
so I can think
deeply
about all that’s been said and done?
I’d like that
and In this one way
for this only time
I think it would be nice
to take my thoughts
into consideration.
Honor that, please.

Great.
Then we’ll talk tomorrow
early
and figure out
exactly how we can
evenly divide the leftovers.

This poem could save your life.
This poem could save the world.
This poem
this very one that you’re reading
– or hearing,
if you bought the audiotape –
this poem could transform your perception
of the world around you
and effect change so powerful
that reality as you knew it
is gone
and a new existence instead
is where you instead live.
All from this poem.
All from these words.

This poem has potential.
This poem could be everything.
This poem could be anything.
This poem can lay things out differently
and it can react with you
or someone else
in inestimable ways.

Feel free to doubt it.
You have the right
to question these claims
and, rest assured,
in doing so
you can limit
this poem’s hold on you.
You can stop the potential.
You can halt the power.
You can believe
whatever you want.

That
is exactly
how this poem can become
such an agent of change.
Or some poem.
Maybe not this one.

A gorgeous girl
lived above the pizza place
and I would visit her there
whenever she would let me.
It’s been quite some time
since I’ve entered that apartment,
as she had left the neighborhood
and my life
around the same time.

The pizza place and I
retain our relationship,
even as years go by.
I still visit La Pizzeria Due
late nights
on the way back home
from various adventures.

I no longer buy pizza
as I once did with her.
No, now
I purchase pizza-like products
such as pinwheels
and stuffed slices
or chicken rolls.
I cannot say why
this transition has occurred.
I suppose
it is possible
that I no longer wish
to do things I had done with her
without her.
Or maybe their pizza sucks.

The important thing is
they’re open late
and they’re on my way home.
They didn’t pay for this endorsement,
I should say.
I really should.