jonberger

I, for one,
am thankful for the democratic republic
in which I live
and all the right and privileges
bestowed upon me
by choosing to be born
in such a cool place.

I am thankful
to have stuffed myself
well past excess this day
and having a home
in which I can keep leftovers
until they become stale
or rotten
and to have a sanitation system
that will let that food sit outside
for enough time
so that those scavengers
that need my left-out leftovers
can take advantage of them.

I am thankful
that I know people
that will pick me up when I fall
and help me learn not to fall
quite so badly
and will help me through
the rest of this ugly Fall.

I am thankful
for what I have
and I am sad
about what I lack
and I am frightened
about what I risk losing.
I am legions
it seems.

Still:
amongst the mix
is thankful.

Mr. Fisher is dead.
Dr. Baughman is dead.
That old diner that you went to
with the old crew
on the good old weekends?
The diner with the giant bucket in the back
filled with cassettes for sale?
It’s a bank now.
No joke.

That innocent hot girl In Chem 102
whom you sat behind,
the one with the short hair
and the echo of a tattoo
at the nape of her neck
is a mother now
and quite possibly a great aunt,
to boot.

The worlds that you left behind
have left you behind, too.
The things from your past
that you may remember fondly
think nothing of you. 
They struggled to survive
for a while
but finally failed
becoming something else
or, as is so often the case,
eventually becoming nothing.

Your history
for the most part
is gone
but you’re still here
to make a new history.
Make the most of it.

Huh.
Based on my initial assessment of the room
I fully expected
to have to do some combat poetry
to keep the rubes in line.
I anticipated some triage surgery
to cut the wheat from the chaff
and get the inattentive
out of my audience immediately.

I figured
I would have to do some shouty words
out in the crowd
addressing the rudest folks
ushering them away from the performance space
thus ensuring myself
a better chance to shine.

I calculated
that a good thirty percent of the room
would have to get out
in the first two minutes
for me to be able
to read well
for those that were left.

It didn’t work out that way
as you saw.
I lost a little bit more
that thirty percent
but I was pretty astonished
how I didn’t have to curse
or scream
or fight to alienate them.
Apparently
I am totally capable
of clearing out a room
without trying
in a good forty seconds.
It seems that I am that good.

Theodora
Empress of the Byzantines?
Yeah, I knew her.
When she lived with my friend
she was such a bitch.

One time
she brought friends over
even though it was a weeknight
and my friend had to tell all of them
to keep it down
like, six times.
She laughed and made fun of my friend
who had to wake up extra early
the next day
to make Greek Fire
for her husband.
He was exhausted
and got fired
soon after and had to move out of town.

I’d see her at some of the clubs.
She claimed to be into Phish
before it was cool
but I ever saw her
at any of their early gigs.
And she never put in anything
for beer runs.
And when her husband
ordered Belasarius to conquer all of Italy
for the glory of the Byzantines
she didn’t even say thank you.

I didn’t like her very much.
She wasn’t my kind of people.
I never much had much to say
to Theodora
Empress of the Byzantines
but she never lied to me
or lived to vote for Trump
which has got to count for something
right?

The woman at the table behind me
is talking about the daughter she lost
fifteen years ago
when she was my age.

“They kept her alive
long enough
for her grandparents to see her
and to say goodbye.
“She was pumped with meds
and far from coherent.
She wasn’t in any pain
as far as we could tell.
It was over relatively quickly.”

Our backs faced each other
pressed on different sides
of the same booth.
I couldn’t see her
at all
but the sorrow of her story
so long after
was still palpable.

I don’t know why
she was reliving this misery
this night
or to whom she spoke.
Only one voice carried to my table
on its own
and it said enough.

I listened carefully
but if I could
I’d have turned my hearing off
so the lady
could be left alone with her friend
her story
and her daughter.

I’ve been thinking of the dead
and what they’d make
of the current events.
A black in the White House?
A woman as a secretary
but GIVING orders?
Fairies able to marry,
adopt and enact
their own distinct agendas?
Self-flushing toilets?
All would be unthinkable
to most of the dead.

Other uncarnate individuals,
perhaps of a more recent variety,
might well have undead heads spinning
just as they spin in graves.

My dad, dead at the start of the election cycle
could not have predicted
the news of this season
with all its vitriol and incivility
and the reversed trends to come.
He’d be chagrined,
for sure,
but I don’t think
were he alive
he would have been in much of a position
to change a thing.

Perhaps
that he’s not here to see it
is for the best.

I would like to take a picture
of the world as it stands
to better remember it
correctly.
I think
in the years to come
it will be good
to have a baseline
with which to compare things.
I want to know
the color the sky is
the taste of a cherry pie
or how easy it had been
to just ask why.

I worry sometimes
about creep
and how I will slowly
surely become used
to a new normal
where everything that I see
is subtly different
from how I was once used to it
once being.

I want to ensure
that I will be capable
of telling the difference.

I do not trust my own senses
in the months to come
and it is possible
that recognizing the lay of the land
will become increasingly important
for I have an awful premonition
and unless I maintain some standard
I’ll never know
just what has changed.

From September to June
even between semesters
I would always have in mind
the work that had to be done:
the homeworks forgotten,
the term papers yet due.

The work expected
would remain with me,
even in sleep
behind eyelids.
I would be haunted
throughout the schoolyear,
worried about what was left to do
until July
when all the papers were written,
the tests taken
and the grades were in
and there was nothing left to worry
or fear or consider.
I’d done everything there was to do.
If I tried any more
it would still come to nothing.
Resolution
was out of my hands.
The results were in.
I’d crossed the divide
and for good or ill
my fate had been decided.

There are times
when before and after
are separated by a distinct schism
based on a date
or a decision
or an action
like the end of the school year
or a military attack
or an breakthrough single
and all processes are resolved
for good or ill.

I am currently unclear
as to whether
I know how to recognize
one of those times.

I have a friend
whose birthday is September Twelfth
which became
for a certain amount of time
a pretty depressing fucking event.

She wanted
like all just Americans do
to celebrate her birthday
but found it a difficult matter
for a series of years.
Eventually
she reclaimed it
and was able to experience the day of her birth
with warmth, affection
and family
just like in olden days.

Please keep this in mind
as you celebrate your anniversaries
near election day
and all that it portends.
It gets better.
It has to.

Sometimes
bones get stronger
after breaking.
Sometimes
a pain
will leave you better prepared
for the world to come.
Sometimes
bad lessons are necessary.

The horrors of history
become building blocks
for the next big thing,
whatever it may be.

World War Two
was followed by decades
of political progress.
The fall of Constantinople
begat the Renaissance.
Genghis Khan
bound all of Eurasia together
under his bloody hooves.
The Dark Ages
had its own technological advancements
though fuck if I can remember what.

The past can provide
thousands of incidents of awful
but they all have passed
and things continue
to improve.
It’s been that way forever
and will continue
unless we seers and prognosticators
are wrong about this, too.